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JOHN BURROUGHS 



SONGS OF NATURE 




OF NATURE 



Copyright, iqoi, by 
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & CO. 




< 1 - 


il 





INTRODUCTION 

By John Burroughs 





compiling this anthology of 
Nature poetry I have been guid- 
ed entirely by my own taste in 
such matters ; I have here gath- 
ered together such poems as I 
myself prefer amid the material 
at my disposal, fhis is accord- 
ing to the wishes of the publishers., who desired that 
the collection should be mine in a real sense., and 
thus carry with it such savor of originality ai 
one maris preferences may give to such a work. 
I trust I have not carried my personal likings too 
far., or to the point of giving expression to any 
mere eccentricities of taste in my selections. To 
make the work individual and yet of a high aver- 
age of excellence has been my hope. 

In such matters it all comes back after all to 
one's likes or dislikes. One may think he is try- 
ing the poem by the standard of the best that has 
been done in this line while he is only trying it by 
his own conception of that standard. So much 
of that standard as is vital in his awn mind., he 
can apply and no more. His own individual 
taste and judgment., clarified and disciplined., of 
course, by wide reading and reflection, are his 



V 




VI 


only guides, ‘^he standard of the best is not 
something that any man can apply., as he can 
the standard of weights and measures ; only the 
best can apply the best. 

fhis collection represents on the whole my judg- 
ment of the best Nature poems at my disposal in 
the language. I am surprised at the amotint of 
so-called Nature poetry that has been added to 
English literature during the past fifty years, but 
I find only a little of it of permanent worth, fhe 
painted, padded, and perfumed Nature of so 
many of the younger poets I cannot stand at all. 
I have not knowingly admitted any poem that 
was not true to my own observations of Nature 

— or that diverged at all fro7n the facts of the 
case, fhus, a poem that shows the swallow 
perched upon the barn in October I could not ac- 
cept, because the swallow leaves us in August ; 
or a poem that makes the chestnut bloom xvith the 
lilac — an instance I came across in my reading 

— would be ruled out on like grounds ; or when 
I find poppies blooming in the corn in an Amer- 
ican poem, as I several times have done, I pass 
by on the other side. 

In a bird poem I want the real bird as a ba- 
sis — not merely a description of it, but its true 
place in the season and in the landscape, and no 
liberties taken with the facts of its life history. 
I must see or hea/r or feel the live bird in the 


vn 


verses, as one does in IVordsxcortHs Cuckoo" 
or Emerson’s “ ’Eitmouse ” or Trowbridge’ s “ Pe- 
ivee.” Lowell is not quite true to the facts xvhen 
in one of his foems he makes the male oriole as- 
sist at nest building. The male may seem to 
superintend the work, but he does not actually 
lend a hand. Give me the real bird first, and 
then all the poetry that can be evoked from it. 

I am aware that there is another class of bird 
poems, or poems inspired by birds, such as 
Keats’s “ Ofi to a Nightingale f in which there is 
little or no natural history, not even of the subli- 
mated kind, and yet that take high rank as 
poems. It is the “ waking dream ’’ in these po- 
ems, the translation of sensuous impressions into 
spiritual longings and attractions that is the 
secret of their power. When the poet can give 
us himself, we can well afford to miss the bird. 

The fanciful and allegorical treatment of Nat- 
ure is for the most part distasteful to me. I do 
not want a mere rhymed description of an object 
or scene, nor a fanciful dressing of it up in po- 
etic imagery. I want it mirrored in the heart 
and life of the poet ; true to the reality without 
and to the emotion within. The one thing that 
makes a poem anyway is emotion — - the emotion of 
love, of beauty, of sublimity — and these emotions 
flaying about the reality result in the true Nat- 
ure poetry as in Wordsworth, Emerson, and 


Vlll 


Bryant T"ke foet is not so much to paint Nature 
as he is to recreate her. He interprets her when 
he infuses his own love into her. 

I have also avoided all poems in which the 
form was difficult fhe for?n of the masters like 
fenny son and W ordsworth is easy., easy as it is 
in organic Nature in her happy moods. I do 
not want to he compelled to expend any force 
upon the poets form — / want it all for his 
thought. A tortuous and difficult channel may 
add to the beauty of a mountain brook., but it 
does not add to the beauty of a poem, fhe moun- 
tain-brook quality must be in the spirit., the con- 
ception. 1 have always been shy of the sonnet., 
because it so rarely flows ; it is labored ; it is 
arbitrary^ with sentences cut in the middle and 
gasping out a feeble rhyme. But the sonnets of 
at least one of our younger poets — author of 
fhe Fields of Dawn — actually flow., and one 
can read them without any ?nental contortion., as 
of course he can the great sonnets of Shakespeare 
and Milton and IV ordsworth. 

One of our young Southern poets has written 
many Nature poe?ns that are based on real love 
and observation., and that abound in striking ahfl 
beautiful lines., but his for?n is involved and dif- 
ficult., and I have not been able to find in his nu- 
merous volumes one whole poem that I could take. 

fhe standard New England poets are not 
more largely represented in my collection., because 


IX 


of copyright restrictions. A few of our minor 
poets are also absent for the same reason. 

J am indebted to Houghton., Mifflin & Com- 
pany for special permission to use such poems 
as I have selected from the works of Longfellow., 
Emerson, Lowell, Whittier, Holmes, Bret Harte, 
Frank Bolles, Aldrich, Celia Lhaxter, Lhoreau, 
Miss Lhomas, Lrowbridge, Edgar Fazvcett, 
Maurice Lhompson, Samuel Longfellow, Helen 
Gray Cone, E. C. Stedtnan., Frank D. Sherman, 
Mary Clemmer Ames, Anna Boynton Averill, 
Dinah Maria Mulock Craik, Wilson Flagg, 
W illiam Dean Howells, Charles Kingsley, Lucy 
Larcom, George Parsons Lathrop, Lloyd Mifflin, 
fames Montgomery, Nora Perry, Charles G. D. 
Roberts, Henry Limrod, Jones V ery, and A. W est. 

I am also indebted to D. Appleton ■& Com- 
pany for five of the poems of Bryant ; to the Cen- 
tury Company for four poems from Richard W at- 
son Gilder's ‘■‘•Five Books of Song,” and two poems 
by Robert Underwood Johnson; to Robert Clark 
Company for poems by W illiam D. Gallagher; 
to Hemy Holt & Company for the poem by Robert 
Kelley Weeks; to Lee & Shepard for the poem 
by David Atwood W asson ; to J. B. Lippincott 
Company for Harrison Smith Morris's poem 
“ Lhe Lonely Bird ” from “ Madonna and 
other Poems f and for the selection entitled “ Lhe 
Closing Scene ” from Lhomas Buchanan Read's 
Poems ; to Longmans, Green & Company for the 


poem by Andrew Lang, and Poems by Sarah 
Piatt ; to David McKay for seven poems from 
W alt Whitman's “ Leaves of Grass ” ; to Small, 
Maynard & Cotnpany for two selections from 
Bliss Carman's “ Songs from F agabondia," and 
two from “ Poems, by John B. Labb " ; to A. M. 
Robertson for the poem by Charles Keeler ; to R. 
H. Russell for poems by Robert Burns IV ilson; to 
Charles Scribner's Sons for poems by Henry van 
Dyke. 

My thanks are further due to Miss Cornelia 
Holroyd Bradley for permission to use the poem 
by her mother, Mrs. Mary Emily Bradley ; to 
Rollin H. Cooke for permission to reprint the poem 
by Rose ferry Cooke ; to Charlton H. Royal, exec- 
utor of the estate of fhomas MacKellar, for allow- 
ing the reprint of “ fhe froublesome Fly ” ; to 
Mrs. Florence Laighton for permission to use the 
poem by Albert Laighton; to Annabel Irvine 
Brown for permission to use the poems of her 
father, f. P. Irvine, and to the following authors 
for the use of their poems : Henry Abbey, Mrs. 
Elizabeth Akers Allen, Joel Benton, Myron B. 
Benton, Mrs. Darmesteter, Charles DeKay, Mary 
Isabella Forsyth, Hamlin Garland, Harriet 
McEwen Kimball, George Murray, Mrs. Sara L. 
Oberholtzer, Charles LV arren Stoddard, and Mrs. 
Nelly Hart W oodworth. 

JOHN BURRO UGHS. 


September, igoi. 


SONGS OF NATURE 




THE RETIREMENT 


By Charles Cotton 

^AREWELL, thou busy world, 
and may 

We never meet again ; 

Here I can eat and sleep and 
pray, 

And do more good in one short 
day 

Than he who his whole age outwears 
Upon the most conspicuous theatres. 

Where naught but vanity and vice appears. 



Good God ! how sweet are all things here ! 
How beautiful the fields appear ! 

How cleanly do we feed and lie ! 

Lord ! what good hours do we keep ! 

How quietly we sleep ! 

What peace, what unanimity ! 

How innocent from the lewd fashion 
Is all our business, all our recreation ! 

O, how happy here’s our leisure ! 

O, how innocent our pleasure ! 

O ye valleys ! O ye mountains ! 

O ye groves, and crystal fountains ! 

How I love, at liberty. 

By turns to come and visit ye ! 


\ 


I 



2 


Dear solitude, the soul’s best friend, 

That man acquainted with himself dost make. 

And all his Maker’s wonders to intend. 

With thee I here converse at will. 

And would be glad to do so still. 

For it is thou alone that keep’st the soul 
awake. 

How calm and quiet a delight 
Is it, alone. 

To read and meditate and write, 

By none offended, and offending none ! 

To walk, ride, sit, or sleep at one’s own ease ; 

And, pleasing a man’s self, none other to dis- 
please. ^ 

O my beloved nymph, fair Dove, 

Princess of rivers, how I love 

Upon thy flowery banks to lie, 

And view thy silver stream. 

When gilded by a Summer’s beam ! 

And in it all thy wanton fry 
Playing at liberty. 

And, with my angle, upon them 
The all of treachery 
I ever learned industriously to try ! 

Such streams Rome’s yellow Tiber cannot sjiow, 
The Iberian Tagus, or Ligurian Po ; 

The Maese, the Danube, and the Rhine, 

Are puddle-water, all, compared with thine ; 

And Loire’s pure streams yet too polluted are 
With thine, much purer, to compare ; 


3 


The rapid Garonne and the winding Seine 
Are both too mean, 

Beloved Dove, with thee 
To vie priority; 

Nay, Tame and Isis, when conjoined, submit. 

And lay their trophies at thy silver feet. 

O my beloved rocks, that rise 
To awe the earth and brave the skies ! 

From some aspiring mountain’s crown 
How dearly do I love. 

Giddy with pleasure to look down ; 

And from the vales to view the noble heights 
above ; 

O my beloved caves ! from dog-star’s heat. 

And all anxieties, my safe retreat ; 

What safety, privacy, what true delight. 

In the artificial light 

Your gloomy entrails make. 

Have I taken, do I take ! 

How oft, when grief has made me fly. 

To hide me from society 

E’en of my dearest friends, have I, 

In your recesses’ friendly shade. 

All my sorrows open laid. 

And my most secret woes intrusted to your privacy ! 

Lord ! would men let me alone. 

What an over-happy one 

Should I think myself to be — 

Might I in this desert place, 

(Which most men in discourse disgrace) 

Live but undisturbed and free ! 


4 


Here in this despised recess, 

Would I, maugre Winter’s cold, 

And the Summer’s worst excess. 

Try to live out to sixty full years old ; 
And, all the while. 

Without an envious eye 
On any thriving under Fortune’s smile, 

Contented live, and then contented die. 


FOR ONE RETIRED INTO THE 
COUNTRY 

By Charles Wesley 

ENCE, lying world, with all thy 
care. 

With all thy shows of good and 
fair. 

Of beautiful or great ! 

Stand with thy slighted charms 
aloof. 

Nor dare invade my peaceful roof, 

Or trouble my retreat. 

Far from thy mad fantastic ways 
I here have found a resting-place 
Of poor wayfaring men : 

Calm as the hermit in his grot 
I here enjoy my happy lot. 

And solid pleasures gain. 



5 


Along the hill or dewy mead 
In sweet forgetfulness I tread, 

Or wander through the grove ; 

As Adam in his native seat, 

In all his works my God I meet, 

The object of my love. 

I see his beauty in the flower : 

To shade my walks and deck my bower 
His love and wisdom join ; 

Him in the feathered choir I hear. 

And own, while all my soul is ear, 

The music is divine. 

In yon unbounded plain I see 
A sketch of his immensity 

Who spans these ample skies ; 
Whose presence makes the happy place, 
And opens in the wilderness 
A blooming paradise. 

Oh, would he now himself impart. 

And fix the Eden in my heart. 

The sense of sin forgiven : 

How should I then throw off my load. 
And walk delightfully with God, 

And follow Christ to heaven ! 


6 


ODE ON SOLITUDE 

By Alexander Pope 

APPY the man whose wish and 
care 

A few paternal acres bound, 
Content to breathe his native air 
In his own ground : 

Whose herds with milk, whose 
fields with bread. 

Whose flocks supply him with attire ; 

Whose trees in summer yield him shade. 

In winter fire : 

Blest, who can unconcern’dly find 

Hours, days, and years slide soft away ; 

In health of body, peace of mind. 

Quiet by day : 

Sound sleep by night, study and ease. 

Together mixt, sweet recreation; 

And innocence, which most does please, 

With meditation. 

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown ; 

Thus, unlamented, let me die. 

Steal from the world, and not a stone 
Tell where I lie. 



7 


HYMN TO CYNTHIA 

By Ben Jonson 

UEEN and Huntress, chaste and 
fair, 

Now the sun is laid to sleep, 
Seated in thy silver chair. 

State in wonted manner keep: 
Hesperus entreats thy light, 
Goddess excellently bright ! 

Earth, let not thy envious shade 
Dare itself to interpose ; 

Cynthia’s shining orb was made 

Heaven to clear when day did close ; 

Bless us then with wished sight, 

Goddess excellently bright ! 

Lay thy bow of pearl apart 

And thy crystal-shining quiver ; 

Give unto the flying hart 

Space to breathe, how short soever ; 

Thou that mak’st a day of nighty 
Goddess excellently bright ! 



8 


RETIREMENT 

By Thomas Warton 

INSCRIPTION IN A HERMITAGE 

ENEATH this stony roof re- 
clined, 

I soothe to peace my pensive 
mind ; 

And while, to shade my lowly 
cave. 

Embowering elms their umbrage 
wave ; 

And while the maple dish is mine — 

The beechen cup, unstained with wine — 

I scorn the gay licentious crowd, 

Nor heed the toys that deck the proud. 

Within my limits, lone and still, 

The blackbird pipes in artless trill ; 

Fast by my couch, congenial guest. 

The wren has wove her mossy nest ; 

From busy scenes and brighter skies, 

To lurk with innocence, she flies. 

Here hopes in safe repose to dwell, 

Nor aught suspects the sylvan cell. 

At morn I take my customed round. 

To mark how buds yoii shrubby mound. 

And every opening primrose count. 

That trimly paints my blooming mount ; 



9 


Or o’er the sculptures, quaint and rude, 
That grace my gloomy solitude, 

I teach in winding wreaths to stray 
Fantastic ivy’s gadding spray. 

At eve, within yon studious nook, 

I ope my brass-embossed book. 

Portrayed with many a holy deed 
Of martyrs, crowned with heavenly meed ; 
Then, as my taper waxes dim. 

Chant, ere I sleep, my measured hymn. 
And at the close, the gleams behold 
Of parting wings, be-dropt with gold. 

While such pure joys my bliss create. 
Who but would smile at guilty state ? 

Who but would wish his holy lot 
In calm oblivion’s humble grot ? 

Who but would cast his pomp away. 

To take my staff, and amice gray ; 

And to the world’s tumultuous stage 
Prefer the blameless hermitage ? 


10 


PACK CLOUDS AWAY 

Thomas Heywood 

ACK clouds away, and welcome 
day, 

With night we banish sor- 
row \ 

Sweet air, blow soft ; mount, 
lark, aloft. 

To give my love good-morrow. 
Wings from the wind to please her mind. 

Notes from the lark I’ll borrow : 

Bird, prune thy wing ; nightingale, sing. 

To give my love good-morrow. 

To give my love good-morrow. 

Notes from them all I’ll borrow. 

Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast. 

Sing, birds, in every furrow ; 

And from each hill let music shrill 
Give my fair love good-morrow. 

Blackbird and thrush in every bush, 

Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow. 

You petty elves, amongst yourselves. 

Sing my fair love good-morrow. 

To give my love good-morrow, 

Sing, birds, in every furrow. 



TO BLOSSOMS 


By Robert Herrick 



AIR pledges of a fruitful tree, 
Why do ye fall so fast ? 

Your date is not so past, 

But you may stay yet here a 
while 

To blush and gently smile, 

And go at last. 


What ! were ye born to be 

An hour or half’s delight, 
And so to bid good-night ? 
’Twas pity Nature brought ye forth, 
Merely to show your worth. 

And lose you quite. 


THE HOUSEKEEPER 

By Charles Lamb 

T he frugal snail, with forecast of repose. 

Carries his house with him where’er he goes; 
Peeps out, — and if there comes a shower 
of rain. 

Retreats to his small domicile again. 

Touch but a tip of him, a horn, — ’tis well, — 

He curls up in his sanctuary shell. 

He’s his own landlord, his own tenant ; stay 
Long as he will, he dreads no Quarter Day. 
Himself he boards and lodges ; both invites 
And feasts himself ; sleeps with himself o’ nights. 


He spares the upholsterer trouble to procure 
Chattels ; himself is his own furniture, 

And his sole riches. Whereso’er he roam, — 
Knock when you will, — he’s sure to be at home. 


THE CLOUD 

By Percy Bysshe Shelley 

BRING fresh showers for the 
thirsting flowers. 

From the seas and the streams ; 
I bear light shade for the leaves 
when laid 

In their noonday dreams. 
From my wings are shaken the 
dews that waken 
The sweet buds every one. 

When rocked to rest on their mother’s breast, 

As she dances about the sun. 

I wield the flail of the lashing hail. 

And whiten the green plains under ; 

And then again I dissolve it in rain. 

And laugh as I pass in thunder, 

I sift the snow on the mountains below. 

And their great pines groan aghast ; 

And all the night ’tis my pillow white. 

While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 

Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers, 
Lightning my pilot sits ; 

In a cavern under is fettered the thunder. 

It struggles and howls at fits ; 




13 


Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, 

This pilot is guiding me. 

Lured by the love of the genii that move 
In the depths of the purple sea ; 

Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills. 

Over the lakes and the plains. 

Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream. 
The Spirit he loves remains ; 

And I all the while bask in heaven’s blue smile. 
Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes. 

And his burning plumes outspread. 

Leaps on the back of my sailing rack 

When the morning-star shines dead. 

As on the jag of a mountain crag. 

Which an earthquake rocks and swings, 

An eagle alit one moment may sit 
In the light of its golden wings. 

And when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea 
beneath 

Its ardors -of rest and of love. 

And the crimson pall of eve may fall 
From the depth of heaven above. 

With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest. 

As still as a brooding dove. 

That orbed maiden with white fire laden. 

Whom mortals call the moon. 

Glides glimmering o’er my fleece-like floor, 

By the midnight breezes strewn ; 

And wherever the beat of her unseen feet. 

Which only the angels hear. 




May have broken the woof of my tent’s thin roof, 
The stars peep behind her and peer ; 

And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, 

Like a swarm of golden bees. 

When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent. 

Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas. 

Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high. 
Are each paved with the moon and these. 

I bind the sun’s throne with the burning zone. 

And the moon’s with a girdle of pearl ; 

The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim. 
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape. 

Over a torrent sea. 

Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof. 

The mountains its columns be. 

The triumphal arch through which I march 
With hurricane, fire, and snow. 

When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, 
Is the million-colored bow ; 

The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove. 

While the moist earth was laughing below. 

I am the daughter of earth and water. 

And the nursling of the sky : 

I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; 

I change, but I cannot die. 

For after the rain when with never a stain. 

The pavilion of heaven is bare. 

And the winds and sunbeams with their convex 
gleams. 

Build up the blue dome of air. 


15 


I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, 

And out of the caverns of rain, 

Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the 
tomb, 

I arise and unbuild it again. 


THE RECOLLECTION 

By Percy Bysshe Shelley 

OW the last day of many days. 
All beautiful and bright as 
thou. 

The loveliest and the last, is 
dead. 

Rise, Memory, and write its 
praise ! 

Up, do thy wonted work! come, trace 
The epitaph of glory fled, — 

For now the Earth has changed its face, 

A frown is on the Heaven’s brow. 

We wandered to the pine forest 

That skirts the Ocean’s foam ; 

The lightest wind was in its nest. 

The tempest in its home. 

The whispering waves were half asleep, 

The clouds were gone to play. 

And on the bosom of the deep 
The smile of Heaven lay ; 



i6 


It seemed as if the hour were one 
Sent from beyond the skies, 
Which scattered from above the sun 
A light of Paradise. 

We paused amid the pines that stood 
The giants of the waste, 
Tortured by storms to shapes as rude 
As serpents interlaced. 

And soothed by every azure breath 
That under heaven is blown. 

To harmonies and hues beneath. 

As tender as its own ; 

Now all the tree-tops lay asleep. 

Like green waves on the sea, 

As still as in the silent deep 

The ocean woods may be. 

How calm it was ! — the silence there 
By such a chain was bound. 

That even the busy woodpecker 
Made stiller by her sound 
The inviolable quietness ; 

The breath of peace we drew 
With its soft motion made not less 
The calm that round us grew. 
There seemed from the remotest seat 
Of the white mountain waste. 

To the soft flower beneath our feet, 

A magic circle traced, — 

A spirit interfused around, 

A thrilling silent life. 


To momentary peace it bound 

Our mortal nature’s strife; — 

And still I felt the centre of 
The magic circle there 
Was one fair Form that filled with love 
The lifeless atmosphere. 

We paused beside the pools that lie 
Under the forest bough, 

Each seemed as ’twere a little sky 
Gulfed in a world below ; 

A firmament of purple light 

Which in the dark earth lay, 

More boundless than the depth of night, 
And purer than the day — 

In which the lovely forests grew 
As in the upper air. 

More perfect both in shape and hue 
Than any spreading there. 

There lay the glade and neighboring lawn, 
And through the dark green wood 
The white sun twinkling like the dawn 
Out of a speckled cloud. 

Sweet views which in our world above 
Can never well be seen. 

Were imaged by the water’s love 
Of that fair forest green. 

And all was interfused beneath 
With an elysian glow. 

An atmosphere without a breath, 

A softer day below. 


i8 


Like one beloved the scene had lent 
To the dark water’s breast, 

Its every leaf and lineament 

With more than truth exprest ; 
Until an envious wind crept by, 

Like an unwelcome thought, 
Which from the mind’s too faithful eye 
Blots one dear image out. 

Though thou art ever fair and kind, 
The forests ever green. 

Less oft is peace in Shelley’s mind 
Than calm in waters seen. 


THE INVITATION. 

Perry Bysshe Shelley 

EST and brightest, come away ! 
Fairer far than this fair Day, 
Which, like thee to those in 
sorrow 

Comes to bid a sweet good-mor* 
row 

To the rough Year just awake 
In its cradle on the brake. 

The brightest hour of unborn Spring 
Through the winter wandering. 

Found, it seems, the halcyon Morn 
To hoar February born ; 

Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth, 

It kissed the forehead of the Earth, 



19 


And smiled upon the silent sea, 

And bade the frozen streams be free, 

And waked to music all their fountains, 
And breathed upor. the frozen mountains, 
And like a prophetess of May 
Strewed flowers upon the barren way. 
Making the wintry world appear 
Like one on whom thou smilest, dear. 

Away, away, from men and towns. 

To the wild wood and the downs — 

To the silent wilderness 
Where the soul need not repress 
Its music lest it should not find 
An echo in another’s mind. 

While the touch of Nature’s art 
Harmonizes heart to heart. 

Radiant Sister of the Day, 

Awake ! arise ! and come away ! 

To the wild woods and the plains. 

And the pools where winter rains 
Image all their roof of leaves. 

Where the pine its garland weaves 
Of sapless green and ivy dun 
Round stems that never kiss the sun; 
Where the lawns and pastures be. 

And the sand-hills of the sea ; — 

Where the melting hoar-frost wets 
The daisy-star that never sets. 

And wind-flowers and violets. 

Which yet join not scent to hue. 

Crown the pale year weak and new ; 


20 


When the night is left behind 
In the deep east, dun and blind, 
And the blue noon is over us, 
And the multitudinous 
Billows murmur at our feet. 
Where the earth and ocean meet, 
And all things seem only one 
In the universal sun. 


TO THE RAINBOW. 

T'ho/nas Ccimphell 

RIUMPHAL arch, that filFst 
the sky 

When storms prepare to part, 
I ask not proud philosophy 
To teach me what thou art. 

Still seem as to my childhood’s 
sight, 

A midway station given, 

For happy spirits to alight 

Betwixt the earth and heaven. 

Can all that optics teach unfold 
Thy form to please me so. 

As when I dreamed of gems and gold 
Hid in thy radiant bow ? 

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams. 

But words of the Most. High, 

Have told why first thy robe of beams 
Was woven in the sky. 




21 


When o’er the green, undeluged earth 
Heaven’s covenant thou didst shine, 
How came the world’s gray fathers forth 
To watch thy sacred sign ! 

And when its yellow lustre smiled 
O’er mountains yet untrod. 

Each mother held aloft her child 
To bless the bow of God. 

Methinks, thy jubilee to keep. 

The first-made anthem rang 
On earth, delivered from the deep. 

And the first poet sang. 

The earth to thee her incense yields, 

. The lark thy welcome sings. 

When, glittering in the freshened fields, 
The snowy mushroom springs. 

How glorious is thy girdle cast 
O’er mountain, tower, and town. 

Or mirrored in the ocean vast, 

A thousand fathoms down ! 

As fresh in yon horizon dark. 

As young thy beauties seem, 

As when the eagle from the ark 
First sported in thy beam. 

For, faithful to its sacred page. 

Heaven still rebuilds thy span ; 

Nor lets the type grow pale with age. 
That first spoke peace to man. 


22 


THE BEECH TREE’S PETITION 

By "Thomas Campbell 

LEAVE this barren spot to me ! 
Spare, woodman, spare the 
beechen tree ! 

Though bush or floweret never 
grow 

My dark unwarming shade be- 
low ; 

Nor summer bud perfume the dew 
Of rosy blush, or yellow hue ! 

Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born, 

My green and glossy leaves adorn \ 

Nor murmuring tribes from me derive 
Th’ ambrosial amber of the hive ; 

Yet leave this barren spot to me: 

Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree ! 

Thrice twenty summers I have seen 
The sky grow bright, the forest green ; 

And many a wintry wind have stood 
In bloomless, fruitless solitude. 

Since childhood in my pleasant bower 
First spent its sweet and sportive hour ; 

Since youthful lovers in my shade 
Their vows of truth and rapture made ; 

And on my trunk’s surviving frame 
Carv’d many a long-forgotten name. 

Oh [ by the sighs of gentle sound. 

First breathed upon this sacred ground ; 




23 


By all that Love has whisper’d here, 

Or beauty heard with ravish’d ear; 

As Love’s own altar honour me : 

Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree ! 

SOLITUDE 

By Lord Byron 

(From ^‘Childe Harold.”) 

HERE is a pleasure in the path- 
less woods. 

There is a rapture on the lonely 
shore. 

There is society where none in- 
trudes. 

By the deep Sea, and music in 
its roar: 

I love not Man the less, but Nature more. 

From these our interviews, in which I steal 
From all I may be, or have been before. 

To mingle with the Universe, and feel 

What I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal. 

Roll on, thou deep and dark-blue Ocean — roll ! 
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 

Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 
Stops with the shore ; upon the watery plain 
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man’s ravage, save his own. 

When, for a moment, like a drop of rain. 

He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan. 
Without a grave, unknell’d, uncoffin’d, and un- 
known. 




24 


NIGHT 

By Lord Byron 

(From Childe Harold.”) 

IS night, when Meditation bids 
us feel 

We once have loved, though 
love is at an end : 

The heart, lone mourner of its 
baffled zeal. 

Though friendless now, will 
dream it had a friend. 

Who with the weight of years would wish to 
bend. 

When Youth itself survives young Love and 
Joy? 

Alas ! when mingling souls forget to blend. 

Death hath but little left him to destroy ! 

Ah ! happy years ! once more who would not be 
a boy ? 

Thus bending o’er the vessel’s laving side. 

To gaze on Dian’s wave-reflected sphere. 

The soul forgets her schemes of hope and pride. 
And flies unconscious o’er each backward year. 
None are so desolate but something dear. 

Dearer than self, possesses or possessed 
A thought, and claims the homage of a tear ; 

A flashing pang ! of which the weary breast 
Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest. 




25 


To sit on rocks, to muse o’er flood and fell, 

To slowly trace the forest’s shady scene. 

Where things that own not man’s dominion dwell, 
And mortal foot hath ne’er or rarely been ; 

To climb the trackless mountain all unseen. 

With the wild flock that never needs a fold ; 

Alone o’er steeps and foaming falls to lean ; 

This is not solitude; ’t is but to hold 
Converse with Nature’s charms, and view her 
stores unrolled. 

But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men 
To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess. 

And roam along, the world’s tired denizen. 

With none who bless us, none whom we can bless : 
Minions of splendour shrinking from distress ! 
None that, with kindred consciousness endued. 

If we were not, would seem to smile the less 
Of all that flatter’d, follow’d, sought, and sued ; 
This is to be alone ; this, this is solitude ! 


SONNET 

By William Shakespeare 

F ull many a glorious morning have I seen 
Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye. 
Kissing with golden face the meadows green. 
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy. 

Anon permit the basest clouds to ride 
With ugly rack on his celestial face. 

And from the forlorn world his visage hide. 
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace : 




26 


Even so my sun one early morn did shine 
With all triumphant splendor on my brow ; 

But outl alack! he was but one hour mine, 

The region cloud hath mask’d him from me now. 
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth ; 

Suns of the world may stain, when heaven’s sun 
staineth. 


MOONLIGHT 

By IVilliam Shakespeare 

OW sweet the moonlight sleeps 
upon this bank ! 

Here will we sit, and let the 
sounds of music 

Creep in your ears : soft still- 
ness, and the night. 

Become the touches of sweet 
harmony. 

Sit, Jessica : look, how the floor of heaven 
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold : 

There’s not the smallest orb which thou behold’st, 
But in his motion like an angel sings. 

Still quiring to the young-ey’d cherubims. 



27 


FLOWERS 

By IVilUam Shakespeare 

(From ^‘Winter Night’s Tale.”) 

O Proserpina, 

For the flowers now, that frighted, thou let’st fall 
From Dis’s wagon ! daffodils. 

That come before the swallow dares, and take 
The winds of March with beauty ; violets dim. 
But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes. 

Or Cytherea’s breath ; pale primroses. 

That die unmarried, ere they can behold 
Bright Phoebus in his strength, a malady 
Most incident to maids ; bold ox-lips, and 
The crown-imperial ; lilies of all kinds. 

The flower-de-luce being one ! O, these I lack. 
To make you garlands of ; and my sweet friend. 
To strew him o’er and o’er ! 


DOVER CLIFFS 

By William Shakespeare 

(From King Lear.”) 

C OME on, sir ; here’s the place : — stand stilL 
— How fearful 

And dizzy ’tis, to cast one’s eye so low ! 
The crows and choughs, that wing the midway air, 
Show scarce so gross as beetles : half way down 
Hangs one that gathers samphire ; dreadful trade ! 
Methinks he seems no bigger than his head : 


28 


The fishermen, that walk upon the beach, 

Appear like mice ; and yond’ tall anchoring bark 
Diminish’d to her cock ; her cock, a buoy 
Almost too small for sight : the murmuring surge, 
That on the unnumber’d idle pebbles chafes. 
Cannot be heard so high : — I’ll look no more ; 
Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight 
Topple down headlong. 


THE STORMY PETREL 

By Bryan Waller Procter Barry CornwalV'^ 

THOUSAND miles from land 
are we. 

Tossing about on the roaring 
sea; 

From billow to bounding billow 
cast. 

Like fleecy snow on the stormy 
blast : 

The sails are scatter’d abroad, like weeds. 

The strong masts shake like quivering reeds, 

The mighty cables, and iron chains. 

The hull, which all earthly strength disdains, 

They strain and they crack, and hearts like stone 
Their natural hard, proud strength disown. 

Up and down ! Up and down ! 

From the base of the wave to the billow’s crown. 
And midst the flashing and feathery foam 
The Stormy Petrel finds a home, — 




29 


A home, if such a place may be, 

For her who lives on the wide, wide sea. 

On the craggy ice, in the frozen air. 

And only seeketh her rocky lair 

To warm her young, and to teach them spring 

At once o’er the waves on their stormy wing. 

O’er the Deep ! O’er the Deep ! 

Where the whale, and the shark, and the sword-fish 
sleep, 

Outflying the blast and the driving rain. 

The Petrel telleth her tale — in vain ; 

For the mariner curseth the warning bird 
Who bringeth him news of the storms unheard ! 
Ah ! thus does the prophet, of good or ill. 

Meet hate from the creatures he serveth still : 

Yet he ne’er falters : — So, Petrel ! spring 
Once more o’er the waves on thy stormy wing! 


THE SEA 

V 

By Bryan JV aller Procter (“ Barry Cornwall ”) 

T he sea ! the sea ! the open sea ! 

The blue, the fresh, the ever free ! 
Without a mark, without a bound. 

It runneth the earth’s wide regions round ; 

It plays with the clouds ; it mocks the skies ; 

Or like a cradled creature lies. 


I’m on the sea ! I’m on the sea ! 
I am where I would ever be ; 


30 


With the blue above, and the blue below, 

And silence wheresoe’er I go ; 

If a storm should come and awake the deep, 
What matter ? I shall ride and sleep. 

I love, O, how I love to ride 
On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide. 

When every mad wave drowns the moon 
Or whistles aloft his tempest tune. 

And tells how goeth the world below. 

And why the sou’west blasts do blow. 

I never was on the dull, tame shore. 

But I lov’d the great sea more and more, 

And backwards flew to her billowy breast. 
Like a bird that seeketh its mother’s nest ; 
And a mother she was, and is, to me ; 

For I was born on the open sea ! 

The waves were white, and red the morn. 

In the noisy hour when I was born ; 

And the whale it whistled, the porpoise roll’d. 
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold ; 
And never was heard such an outcry wild 
As welcom’d to life the ocean-child ! 

I’ve liv’d since then, in calm and strife. 

Full fifty summers, a sailor’s life. 

With wealth to spend and a power to range. 
But never have sought nor sighed for change ; 
And Death, whenever he comes to me. 

Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea ! 


31 


THE OWL 

By Bryan Waller Procter Barry Cornwair') 

N the hollow tree, in the old 
gray tower, 

The spectral Owl doth dwell ; 
Dull, hated, despised in the sun- 
shine hour. 

But at dusk he’s abroad and 
well ! 

Not a bird of the forest e’er mates with him ; 

All mock him outright, by day ; 

But at night, when the woods grow still and dim. 
The boldest will shrink away ! 

O, when the night falls ^ and roosts the fowl^ 
Then^ then^ is the reign of the Horned Owl ! 

And the Owl hath a bride, who is fond and bold. 
And loveth the wood’s deep gloom ; 

And, with eyes like the shine of the moonstone cold, 
She awaiteth her ghastly groom ; 

Not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings. 

As she waits in her tree so still ; 

But when her heart heareth his flapping wings. 

She hoots out her welcome shrill ! 

O — when the moon shines^ and dogs do howl^ 
Then^ then^ is the joy of the Horned Owl! 

Mourn not for the Owl, nor his gloomy plight ; 

The Owl hath his share of good : 

If a prisoner he be in the broad daylight. 

He is lord in the dark greenwood ! 



32 


Nor lonely the bird, nor his ghastly mate — 

They are each unto each a pride ; 

Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange, dark fate 
Hath rent them from all beside ! 

&, when the night falls^ and dogs do howl^ 

Sing^ Ho f for the reign of the Horned Owl / 
We know not alway 
Who are kings hy day^ 

But the king of the night is the bold brown Owl ! 


DARWINISM 

By Mrs. Darmsteter (^A. Mary F. Rohmson), 

HEN first the unflowering Fern- 
forest, 

Shadowed the dim lagoons of old, 
A vague unconscious long un- 
rest 

Swayed the great fronds of green 
and gold. 

Until the flexible stems grew rude, 

The fronds began to branch and bower, 

And lo ! upon the unblossoming wood 
There breaks a dawn of apple-flower. 

Then on the fruitful Forest-boughs 
For ages long the unquiet ape 
Swung happy in his airy house 

And plucked the apple and sucked the grape. 



33 


Until in him at length there stirred 
The old, unchanged, remote distress. 

That pierced his world of wind and bird 
With some divine unhappiness. 

Not Love, nor the wild fruits he sought; 

Nor the fierce battles of his clan 
Could still the unborn and aching thought 
Until the brute became the man. 

Long since. . , And now the same unrest 

Goads to the same invisible goal. 

Till some new gift, undreamed, unguessed, 
End the new travail of the soul. 


SCYTHE SONG 


By Andrew hang 

O WERS, weary and brown, and 
blithe. 

What is the word methinks ye 
know. 

Endless over-word that the Scythe 
Sings to the blades of the grass 
below ? 

Scythes that swing in the grass and clover. 
Something, still, they say as they pass ; 

What is the word that, over and over. 

Sings the Scythe to the flowers and grass ? 




34 


Hush^ ah hush^ the Scythes are saying, 

Hush^ and heed not^ and fall asleep ; 

Hush^ they say to the grasses swaying, 

Hush^ they sing to the clover deep ! 

Hush — ’tis the lullaby Time is singing — 
Hush^ and heed not ^ for all things pass^ 
Hush^ ah hush ! and the Scythes are swinging 
Over the clover, over the grass ! 


THE CROCUS 

By Harriet Eleanor Hamilton King 

UT of the frozen earth below. 
Out of the melting of the 
snow. 

No flower, but a film, I push 
to light ; 

No stem, no bud, — yet I have 
burst , 

The bars of winter, I am the first, 

0 Sun, to greet thee out of the night ! 

Bare are the branches, cold is the air, 

Yet it is fire at the heart I bear, 

1 come, a flame that is fed by none : 

The summer hath blossoms for her delight, 

Thick and dewy and waxen-white. 

Thou seest me golden, O golden Sun ! 




35 


Deep in the warm sleep underground 
Life is still, and the peace profound : 

Yet a beam that pierced, and a thrill that smote 
Call’d me and drew me from far away ; — 

I rose, I came, to the open day 

I have won, unshelter’d, alone, remote. 

No bee strays out to greet me at morn, 

I shall die ere the butterfly is born, 

I shall hear no note of the nightingale ; 

The swallow will come at the break of green, 

He will never know that I have been 

Before him here when the world was pale. 

They will follow, the rose with the thorny stem, 
The hyacinth stalk, — soft airs for them ; 

They shall have strength, I have but love : 
They shall not be tender as I, — 

Yet I fought here first, to bloom, to die, 

To shine in his face who shines above. 

O Glory of heaven, O Ruler of morn, 

0 Dream that shap’d me, and I was born 

In thy likeness, starry, and flower of flame ; 

1 lie on the earth, and to thee look up. 

Into thy image will grow my cup. 

Till a sunbeam dissolve it into the same. 


36 


TO A MOUSE 

ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE 
PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1 785 

By Robert Burns 

EE, sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous 
beastie, 

O, what a panic’s in thy 
breastie ! 

Thou need na start awa sae 
hasty, 

Wi’ bickering brattle ! 

I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee, 

Wi’ murd’ring prattle ! 

I’m truly sorry man’s dominion 
Has broken Nature’s social union. 

An’ justifies that ill opinion. 

Which makes thee startle 
At me, thy poor earth-born companion. 

An’ fellow-mortal! » 

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve ; 

What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live ! 

A daimen-icker in a thrave 
’S a sma’ request ; 

I’ll get a blessin’ wi’ the lave. 

And never miss’t I 



Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 
Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewin ! 


37 


An’ naething, now, to big a new ane, 

O’ foggage green ! 

An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin’, 
Baith snell an’ keen ! 

Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste, 

An’ weary winter cornin’ fast. 

An’ cozie here, beneath the blast. 

Thou thought to dwell. 

Till crash ! the cruel coulter past. 

Out through thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble 

Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 

Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble. 
But house or hald. 

To thole the winter’s sleety dribble. 

An’ cranreuch cauld ! 

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane. 

In proving foresight may be vain : 

The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men 
Gang aft a-gley. 

An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain. 
For promis’d joy. 

Still thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me ! 

The present only toucheth thee : 

But, Och ! I backward cast my e’e 
On prospects drear ! 

An’ forward, tho’ I canna see, 

I guess an’ fear ! 


38 


AFTON WATER 

By Robert Burns 

LOW gently, sweet Afton, 
among thy green braes, 

Flow gently. I’ll sing thee a song 
in thy praise; 

My Mary’s asleep by thy mur- 
muring stream. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, dis- 
turb not her dream. 

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro’ the 
glen. 

Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den. 
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, 
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills. 

Far mark’d with the courses of clear winding rills, 
There daily I wander as noon rises high. 

My flocks and my Mary’s sweet cot iji my eye. 

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below. 
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow ! 
There oft as mild ev’ning weeps over the lea. 

The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. 

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides. 
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides ; 
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave. 

As gathering sweet flow’rets she stems thy clear 
wave ! 



39 


Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes; 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ; 
My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 


ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE 
LIMP BY ME 

WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT 

By Robert Burns 

I 

NHUMAN man! curse on thy 
barb’rous art. 

And blasted be thy murder- 
aiming eye ; 

May never pity soothe thee 
with a sigh. 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel 
heart ! 

II 

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and held. 

The bitter little that of life remains ; 

No more the thickening brakes and verdant 
plains 

To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. 

III 

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest. 
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed I 
The sheltering rushes whistling o’er thy head, 
The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. 




40 


IV 

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait 

The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 
ril miss thee sporting o’er the dewy lawn. 
And curse the ruffian’s aim, and mourn thy hapless 
fate. 


AGAIN REJOICING NATURE 
SEES ” 

By Robert Burns 

GAIN rejoicing Nature sees 

Her robe assume its vernal 
hues. 

Her leafy locks wave in the 
breeze, 

All freshly steep’d in morning 
dews. 

CHORUS 

And maun I still on Menie doat, 

And bear the scorn that’s in her e’e ? 

For it’s jet, jet black, an’ it’s like a hawk. 

An’ it winna let a body be ! 

In vain to me the cowslips blaw. 

In vain to me the vi’lets spring ; 

In vain to me in glen or shaw, 

The mavis and the lintwhite sing. 

And maun I still, etc. 




41 


The merry ploughboy cheers his team, 

Wi’ joy the tentie seedsman stalks, 

But life to me’s a weary dream, 

A dream of ane that never wauks. 

And maun I still, etc. 

The wanton coot the water skims, 

Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, 

The stately swan majestic swims. 

And everything is blest but 1. 

And maun I still, etc. 

The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap, 

And owre the moorlands whistles shrill, 

Wi" wild, unequal, wand’ring step 
I meet him on the dewy hill. 

And maun I still, etc. 

And when the lark, ’tween light and dark, 
Blythe waukens by the daisy’s side, 

And mounts and sings on flittering wings, 

A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide. 

And maun I still, etc. 

Come Winter, with thine angry howl. 

And raging bend the naked tree ; 

Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul. 
When Nature all is sad like me ! 

And maun I still on Menie doat. 

And bear the scorn that’s in her e’e ?' 

For it’s jet, jet black, an’ it’s like a hawk. 
An’ it winna let a body be ! 


42 


TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY 

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN 
APRIL, 1786 

By Robert Burns 

EE, modest, crimson-tipped 
flow’r, 

Thou’s met me in an evil 
hour; 

For I maun crush amang the 
stoure 

Thy slender stem. 

To spare thee now is past my pow’r, 

Thou bonnie gem. 

Alas ! it’s no thy neeber sweet, 

The bonnie lark, companion meet, 

Bending thee ’mang the dewy weet ! 

Wi’ spreckl’d breast ! 

When upward-springing, blythe, to greet , 

The purpling east. 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth; 

Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 
Amid the storm, 

Scarce rear’d above the parent-earth 
Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flow’rs our gardens yield. 

High shelt’ring woods and wa’s maun shield ; 



43 


But thou, beneath the random bield 
O’ clod or stane, 

Adorns the histie stibble-field, 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad. 

Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread, 

Thou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise ; 

But now the share uptears thy bed, 

And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless Maid, 

Sweet flow’ret of the rural shade ! 

By love’s simplicity betray’d. 

And guileless trust, 

Till she, like thee, all soil’d, is laid 
Low i’ the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple Bard, 

On Life’s rough ocean luckless starr’d ! 
Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore. 

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard. 

And whelm him o’er ! 

Such fate to suffering worth is giv’n. 

Who long with wants and woes has striv’n, 
By human pride or cunning driv’n 

To mis’ry’s brink. 

Till, wrench’d of ev’ry stay but Heav’n, 
He, ruin’d, sink ! 


44 


Ev’n thou who mourn’st the Daisy’s fate, 
That fate is thine — no distant date ; 
Stern Ruin’s ploughshare drives elate, 

Full on thy bloom, 

Till crush’d beneath the furrow’s weight, 
Shall be thy doom ! 


BONNIE BOON 

By Robert Burns 

E banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon 
How can ye bloom sae fresh 
and fair ? 

How can ye chaunt, ye little 
birds, 

And I sae weary, fu’ of care ? 
Thou’lt break my heart, thou 
warbling bird. 

That wantons through the flow’ry thorn, 

Thou mindst me o’ departed joys. 

Departed never to return. 

Oft hae I rov’d by bonnie Doon, 

To see the rose and woodbine twine; 

When ilka bird sang o’ its love. 

And fondly sae did I o’ mine. 

Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose, 

Fu’ sweet upon its thorny tree; 

But my fause lover stole my rose. 

And, ah ! he left the thorn wi’ me. 



45 


SPRING SONG IN THE CITY 

Robert Buchanan 

HO remains in London, 

In the streets with me, 

Now that Spring is blowing 
Warm winds from the sea; 
Now that trees grow green and 
tall. 

Now the sun shines mellow^ 
And with moist primroses all 
English lanes are yellow ? 

Little barefoot maiden. 

Selling violets blue. 

Hast thou ever pictur’d 

Where the sweetlings grew ? 

Oh, the warm wild woodland ways, 

Deep in dewy grasses. 

Where the wind-blown shadow strays^ 

Scented as it passes ! 

Pedlar breathing deeply. 

Toiling into town. 

With the dusty highway 
You are dusky brown ; 

Hast thou seen by daisied leas. 

And by rivers flowing. 

Lilac-ringlets which the breeze 
Loosens lightly blowing ? 

Out of yonder wagon 

Pleasant hay-scents float, 


By 



46 


He who drives it carries 
A daisy in his coat : 

Oh, the English meadows, fair 
Far beyond all praises ! 

Freckled orchids everywhere 
’Mid the snow of daisies ! 

Now in busy silence 
Broods the nightingale. 

Choosing his love’s dwelling 
In a dimpled dale ; 

Round the leafy bower they raise 
Rose-trees wild are springing ; 

Underneath, thro’ the green haze, 
Bounds the brooklet singing. 

And his love is silent 
As a bird can be. 

For the red buds only 
Fill the red rose-tree ; 

Just as buds and blossoms blow 
He’ll begin his tune. 

When all is green and roses glow 
Underneath the moon. 

Nowhere in the valleys 
Will the wind be still. 

Everything is waving. 

Wagging at his will : 

Blows the milkmaid’s kirtle clean, 
With her hand press’d on it ; 

Lightly o’er the hedge so green 
Blows the ploughboy’s bonnet. 


47 


Oh, to be a-roaming 
In an English dell ! 

Every nook is wealthy, 

All the world looks well. 
Tinted soft the Heavens glow, 
Over Earth and Ocean, 
Waters flow, breezes blow. 

All is light and motion ! 


TO A HUMMING BIRD IN A 
GARDEN 


By George Murray 



LITHE playmate of the Summer 
time. 

Admiringly I greet thee ; 

Born in old England’s misty 
clime, 

I scarcely hoped to meet 
thee. 


Com’st thou from forests of Peru, 

Or from Brazil’s savannahs. 

Where flowers of every dazzling hue 
Flaunt, gorgeous as Sultanas ? 

Thou scannest me with doubtful gaze. 
Suspicious little stranger ! 

Fear not, thy burnished wings may blaze 
Secure from harm or danger. 


48 


Now here, now there, thy flash is seen. 
Like some stray sunbeam darting. 

With scarce a second’s space between 
Its coming and departing. 

Mate of the bird that lives sublime 
In Pat’s immortal blunder. 

Spied in two places at a time. 

Thou challengest our wonder. 

Suspended by thy slender bill. 

Sweet blooms thou lov’st to rifle ; 

The subtle perfumes they distil 
Might well thy being stifle. 

Surely the honey-dew of flowers 
Is slightly alcoholic. 

Or why, through burning August hours. 
Dost thou pursue thy frolic ? 

What though thy throatlet never rings 
With music, soft or stirring ; 

Still, like a spinning-wheel, thy wings 
Incessantly are whirring. 

How dearly I would love to see 
Thy tiny cara sposa^ 

As full of sensibility 
As any coy mimosa ! 

They say, when hunters track her nest 
Where two warm pearls are lying. 

She boldly fights, though sore distrest. 
And sends the brigands flying. 


49 


What dainty epithets thy tribes 
Have won from men of science! 

Pedantic and poetic scribes 
For once are in alliance. 

Crested Coquette, and Azure Crown, 
Sun Jewel, Ruby-Throated, 

With Flaming Topaz, Crimson Down, 
Are names that may be quoted. 

Such titles aim to paint the hues 
That on the darlings glitter, 

And were we for a week to muse. 

We scarce could light on fitter. 

Farewell, bright bird ! I envy thee. 

Gay rainbow-tinted rover; 

Would that my life, like thine, were free 
From care till all is over! 


THE SKYLARK 

By Frederick "Fenny son 

H OW the blithe Lark runs up the golden staii 
That leans thro’ cloudy gates from Heaven 
to Earth, 

And all alone in the empyreal air 

Fills it with jubilant sweet songs of mirth ; 

How far he seems, how far 
With the light upon his wings. 

Is it a bird, or star 

That shines, and sings \ 


50 


What matter if the days be dark and frore, 

That sunbeam tells of other days to be, 

And singing in the light that floods him o’er 
In joy he overtakes Futurity; 

Under cloud-arches vast 
He peeps, and sees behind 
Great Summer coming fast 
Adown the wind ! 

And now he dives into a rainbow’s rivers. 

In streams of gold and purple he is drown’d. 
Shrilly the arrows of his song he shivers. 

As tho’ the stormy drops were turn’d to sound; 
And now he issues thro’. 

He scales a cloudy tower. 

Faintly, like falling dew. 

His fast notes shower. 

Let every wind be hush’d, that I may hear 

The wondrous things he tells the World below, 
Things that we dream of he is watching near, 
Hopes that we never dream’d he would bestow ; 
Alas ! the storm hath roll’d 
Back the gold gates again. 

Or surely he had told 
All Heaven to men ! 

So the victorious Poet sings alone. 

And fills with light his solitary home. 

And thro’ that glory sees new worlds foreshown. 
And hears high songs, and triumphs yet to 
come. 


51 


He waves the air of Time 

With thrills of golden chords, 

And makes the world to climb 
On linked words. 

What if his hair be gray, his eyes be dim. 

If wealth forsake him, and if friends be cold. 

Wonder unbars her thousand gates to him. 
Truth never fails, nor Beauty waxes old; 
More than he tells his eyes 
Behold, his spirit hears, 

Of grief, and joy, and sighs 
’Twixt joy and tears. 

Blest is the man who with the sound of song 
Can charm away the heartache, and forget 

The frost of Penury, and the stings of Wrong, 
And drown the fatal whisper of Regret ! 
Darker are the abodes 

Of Kings, tho’ his be poor. 

While Fancies, like the Gods, 

Pass thro’ his door. 

Singing thou scalest Heaven upon thy wings, 
Thou liftest a glad heart into the skies ; 

He maketh his own sunrise, while he sings. 
And turns the dusty Earth to Paradise ; 

I see thee sail along 

Far up the sunny streams, 

Unseen, I hear his song, 

'I see his dreams. 


52 


A GLEE FOR WINTER 

By Alfred Domett 

ENCE, rude -Winter! crabbed 
old fellow, 

Never merry, never mellow I 
Well-a day I in rain and snow 
What will keep one’s heart 
aglow ? 

Groups of kinsmen, old and 
young. 

Oldest they old friends among; 

, Groups of friends, so old and true 
That they seem our kinsmen too; 

These all merry all together 
Charm away chill Winter weather. 

What will kill this dull old fellow ? 

Ale that’s bright, and wine that’s mellow ! 

Dear old songs for ever new ; 

Some true love, and laughter too ; 

Pleasant wit, and harmless fun, 

And a dance when day is done. 

Music, friends so true and tried. 

Whisper’d love by warm fireside. 

Mirth at all times all together, 

Makes sweet May of Winter weathefo 



53 


HOME-THOUGHTS FROM 
ABROAD 

By Robert Browning 

I 

H, to be in England now that 
April’s there, 

And whoever wakes in England- 
sees, some morning, unaware. 
That the lowest boughs and the 
brush-wood sheaf 
Round the elm-tree bole are in 
tiny leaf, 

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough 
In England — now ! 

II 

And after April, when May follows. 

And the white-throat builds, and all the swallows ! 
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge 
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover 
Blossoms and dewdrops — at the bent spray’s 
edge — 

That’s the wise thrush ; he sings each song twice 
over 

Lest you should think he never could recapture 
The first fine careless rapture ! 

And though the fields look rough with hoary dew. 
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew 
The buttercups, the little children’s dower. 

Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower ! 




54 


BY THE FIRESIDE 

By Robert Browmng 

TURN, and we stand in the 
heart of things ; 

The woods are round us 
heaped and dim ; 

From slab to slab how it slips 
and springs, 

The thread of water single 
and slim 

Through the ravage some torrent brings ! 

Does it feed the little lake below ? 

That speck of white just on its marge 
Is Pella ; see in the evening glow. 

How sharp the silver spear-heads charge 
When Alp meets heaven in snow ! 

On our other side is the straight-up rock ; 

And a path is kept ’twixt the gorge and it 
By boulder-stones where lichens mock 

The marks on a moth, and small ferns fit 
Their teeth to the polished block. 

Oh the sense of the yellow mountain-flowers 
And thorny balls, each three in one. 

The chestnuts throw on our path in showers ! 

For the drop of the woodland fruit *s begun, 
These early November hours. 




55 


That crimson the creeper’s leaf across 
Like a splash of blood, intense, abrupt. 
O’er a shield else gold from rim to boss. 
And lay it for show on the fairy-cupped 
Elf-needled mat of moss. 

By the rose-flesh mushrooms, undivulged 
Last evening — nay, in to-day’s first dew 
Yon sudden coral nipple bulged. 

Where a freaked fawn-colored flaky crew 
Of toad-stools peep indulged. 


And all day long a bird sings there. 

And a stray sheep drinks at the pond at times ; 
The place is silent and aware ; 

It has had its scenes, its joys and crimes. 

But that is its own affair. 


PIPPA PASSES 

(From Pippa Passes ”) 

By Robert Brozvnm^ 

D ay, 

Faster and more fast. 

O’er night’s brim, day boils at last ; 
Boils, pure gold, o’er the cloud-cup’s brim 
Where spurting and suppressed it lay. 

For not a froth-flake touched the rim 
Of yonder gap in the solid gray 
Of the eastern cloud, an hour away ; 


56 


But forth one wavelet, then another, curled. 

Till the whole sunrise, not to be suppressed. 

Rose, reddened, and its seething breast 
Flickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed 
the world. 


THE IRISH WOLF-HOUND 

(From ^^The Foray of Con O’Donnell*’) 

By Denis Florence MacCarthy 

S fly the shadows o’er the grass. 
He flies with step as light and 
sure. 

He hunts the wolf through Tos- 
tan pass. 

And starts the deer by Lisa- 
noure. 

The music of the Sabbath bells, 

O Con ! has not a sweeter sound 

Than when along the valley swells 

The cry of John Mac Donnell’s hound. 

His stature tall, his body long. 

His back like night, his breast like snow, 

His fore-leg pillar-like and strong, 

His hind-leg like a bended bow ; 

Rough curling hair, head long and thin, 

His ear a leaf so small and round ; 

Not Bran, the favorite dog of Fin, 

Could rival John Mac Donnell’s hound. 




57 



THE FROSTED PANE 

Charles G. D. Roberts 


noise- 


SK night came Winter 
lessly and leaned 
Against my window-pane. 

In the deep stillness of his heart 
convened 

The ghosts of all his slain. 


Leaves, and ephemera, and stars of earth. 

And fugitives of grass, — 

White spirits loosed from bonds of mortal birth. 
He drew them on the glass. 


AUTOCHTHON 

By Charles G, D. Roberts 

I AM the spirit astir 
To swell the grain. 

When fruitful sons confer 
With laboring rain ; 

I am the life that thrills 
In branch and bloom ; 

I am the patience of abiding hills. 
The promise masked in doom. 

When the sombre lands are wrung, 
And storms are out. 

And giant woods give tongue, 

I am the shout \ 


58 


And when the earth would sleep, 

Wrapped in her snows, 

I am the infinite gleam of eyes that keep 
The post of her repose. 

I am the hush of calm, 

I am the speed. 

The flood-tide’s triumphing psalm. 

The marsh-pool’s heed ; 

I work in the rocking roar 
Where cataracts fall ; 

I flash in the prismy fire that dances o’er 
The dew’s ephemeral ball. 

I am the voice of wind 
And wave and tree. 

Of stern desires and blind. 

Of strength to be ; 

I am the cry by night 
At point of dawn, 

The summoning bugle from the unseen height, 

In cloud and doubt withdrawn. 

I am the strife that shapes 
The stature of man. 

The pang no hero escapes. 

The blessing, the ban ; 

I am the hammer that moulds 
The iron of our race. 

The omen of God in our blood that a people be- 
holds. 

The foreknowledge veiled in our face. 


59 


THE HAWKBIT 

By Charles G. D. Roberts 

O W sweetly on the autumn scene, 
When haws are red amid the 
green, 

The hawkbit shines with face of 
cheer. 

The favorite of the faltering 
year ! 

When days grow short and nights grow cold, 

How fairly gleams its eye of gold 
On pastured field and grassy hill, 

Along the roadside and the rill ! 

It seems the spirit of a flower. 

This oflFspring of the autumn hour, 

Wandering back to earth to bring 
Some kindly afterthought of spring. 

A dandelion’s ghost might so 
Amid Elysian meadows blow. 

Become more fragile and more fine 
Breathing the atmosphere divine. 




6o 


THE FLIGHT OF THE GEESE 

By Charles G. D. Roberts 

HEAR the low wind wash the 
softening snow, 

The low tide loiter down the 
shore. The night, 

Full filled with April forecast, 
hath no light. 

The salt wave on the sedge-flat 
pulses slow. 

Through the hid furrows lisp in murmurous flow 
The thaw’s shy ministers ; and hark ! The height 
Of heaven grows weird and loud with unseen flight 
Of strong hosts prophesying as they go ! 

High through the drenched and hollow night their 
wings 

Beat northward hard on winter’s trail. The sound 
Of their confused and solemn voices, borne 
Athwart the dark to their long arctic morn, 

Comes with a sanction and an awe profound, 

A boding of unknown, foreshadowed things. 



WALDEINSAMKEIT 

By Ralph IV aldo Emerson 

I DO not count the hours I spend 
In wandering by the sea ; 

The forest is my loyal frierul, 
Like God it useth me. 



6i 


In plains that room for shadows make 
Of skirting hills to lie, 

Bound in by streams which give and taJce 
Their colors from the sky ; 

Or on the mountain-crest sublime, 

Or down the oaken glade, 

© what have I to do with time ? 

For this the day was made. 

Cities of mortals woe-begone 
Fantastic care derides, 

But in the serious landscape lone 
Stern benefit abides. 

Sheen will tarnish, honey cloy. 

And merry is only a mask of sad. 

But, sober on a fund of joy. 

The woods at heart are glad. 

There the great Planter plants 
Of fruitful worlds the grain. 

And with a million spells enchants 
The souls that walk in pain. 

Still on the seeds of all he made 
The rose of beauty burns ; 

Through times that wear and forms that fade, 
Immortal youth returns. 

The black ducks mounting from the lake, 
The pigeon in the pines. 

The bittern’s boom, a desert make 
Which no false art refines. 


62 


Down in yon watery nook, 

Where bearded mists divide, 

The gray old gods whom Chaos knew. 
The sires of Nature, hide. 

Aloft, in secret veins of air. 

Blows the sweet breath of song, 

O, few to scale those uplands dare, 
Though they to all belong ! 

See thou bring not to field or stone 
The fancies found in books ; 

Leave authors’ eyes, and fetch your own, 
To brave the landscape’s looks. 

Oblivion here thy wisdom is. 

Thy thrift, the sleep of cares ; 

For a proud idleness like this 
Crowns all thy mean affairs. 


THE HUMBLE-BEE 

Bj Ralph Waldo Emerson 

B urly, dozing humble-bee. 

Where thou art is clime for me. 
Let them sail for Porto Rique, 
Far-off heats through seas to seek; 

I will follow thee alone. 

Thou animated torrid-zone ! 

Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer. 

Let me chase thy waving lines ; 

Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, 

Singing over shrubs and vines. 


63 


Insect lover of the sun, 

Joy of thy dominion ! 

Sailor of the atmosphere ; 

Swimmer through the waves of air; 
Voyager of light and noon ; 

Epicurean of June; 

Wait, I prithee, till I come 
Within earshot of thy hum, — 

All without is martyrdom. 

When the south wind, in May days, 
With a net of shining haze 
Silvers the horizon wall. 

And with softness touching all. 

Tints the human countenance 
With a color of romance. 

And infusing subtle heats. 

Turns the sod to violets. 

Thou, in sunny solitudes. 

Rover of the underwoods. 

The green silence dost displace 
With thy mellow, breezy bass. 

Hot midsummer’s petted crone. 

Sweet to me thy drowsy tone 
Tells of countless sunny hours. 

Long days, and solid banks of flowers ; 
Of gulfs of sweetness without bound 
In Indian wildernesses found ; 

Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure. 
Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure. 

Aught unsavory or unclean 
Hath my insect never seen ; 


64 


But violets and bilberry bells, 
Maple-sap and dafFodels, 

Grass with green flag half-mast high, 
Succory to match the sky. 

Columbine with horn of honey. 
Scented fern, and agrimony. 

Clover, catchfly, adder’s-tongue 
And brier-roses, dwelt among; 

All beside was unknown waste, 

All was picture as he passed. 

Wiser far than human seer. 
Yellow-breeched philosopher ! 

Seeing only what is fair, 

Sipping only what is sweet. 

Thou dost mock at fate and care. 
Leave the chaff, and take the wheat. 
When the fierce northwestern blast 
Cools sea and land so far and fast. 
Thou already slumberest deep ; 

Woe and want thou canst outsleep ; 
Want and woe, which torture us. 
Thy sleep makes ridiculous. 


SONG OF NATURE 

By Ralph IValdo Emerson 

M ine are the night and morning. 

The pits of air, the gulf of space. 
The sportive sun, the gibbous moon, 
The innumerable days. 


65 


I hide in the solar glory, 

I am dumb in the pealing song, 

I rest on the pitch of the torrent, 

In slumber I am strong. 

No numbers have counted my tallies. 
No tribes my house can fill, 

I sit by the shining Fount of Life 
And pour the deluge still ; 

And ever by delicate powers 
Gathering along the centuries 
From race on race the rarest flowers. 
My wreath shall nothing miss. 

And many a thousand summers 
My gardens ripened well. 

And light from meliorating stars 
With firmer glory fell. 

I wrote the past in characters 
Of rock and fire the scroll. 

The building in the coral sea. 

The planting of the coal. 

And thefts from satellites and rings 
And broken stars I drew. 

And out of spent and aged things 
I formed the world anew ; 

What time the gods kept carnival. 
Tricked out in star and flower. 

And in cramp elf and saurian forms 
They swathed their too much power. 


66 


Time and Thought were my surveyors, 
They laid their courses well, 

They boiled the sea, and piled the layers 
Of granite, marl and shell. 

But he, the man-child glorious, — 

Where tarries he the while ? 

The rainbow shines his harbinger. 

The sunset gleams his smile. 

My boreal lights leap upward, 

Forthright my planets roll. 

And still the man-child is not born, 

The summit of the whole. 

Must time and tide forever run ? 

Will never my winds go sleep in the west ? 
Will never my wheels which whirl the sun 
And satellites have rest ? 

Too much of donning and doffing, 

Too slow the rainbow fades, 

I weary of my robe of snow. 

My leaves and my cascades ; 

I tire of globes and races, 

Too long the game is played ; 

What without him is summer’s pomp. 

Or winter’s frozen shade ? 

I travail in pain for him. 

My creatures travail and wait ; 

His couriers come by squadrons. 

He comes not to the gate. 


67 


Twice I have moulded an image, 

And thrice outstretched my hand, 

Made one of day and one of night 
And one of the salt sea-sand. 

One in a Judaean manger. 

And one by Avon stream. 

One over against the mouths of Nile, 

And one in the Academe. 

I moulded kings and saviors. 

And bards o’er kings to rule ; — 

But fell the starry influence short. 

The cup was never full. 

Yet whirl the glowing wheels once more. 
And mix the bowl again ; 

Seethe, Fate ! the ancient elements. 

Heat, cold, wet, dry, and peace, and pain. 

Let war and trade and creeds and song 
Blend, ripen race on race. 

The sunburnt world a man shall breed 
Of all the zones and countless days. 

No ray is dimmed, no atom worn. 

My oldest force is good as new. 

And the fresh rose on yonder thorn 
Gives back the bending heavens in dew. 


68 


THE JOYS OF THE ROAD 

By Bliss Carman 

OW the joys of the road are 
chiefly these : 

A crimson touch on the hard- 
wood trees; 

A vagrant’s morning wide and 

blue, 

In early fall, when the wind walks, too ; 



A shadowy highway cool and brown. 
Alluring up and enticing down 

From rippled water to dappled swamp, 
From purple glory to scarlet pomp; 

The outward eye, the quiet will. 

And the striding heart from hill to hill ; 

The tempter apple over the fence ; 

The cobweb bloom on the yellow quince; 


The palish asters along the wood, — 

A lyric touch of the solitude ; 

An open hand, an easy shoe, 

And a hope to make the day go through, — 


Another to sleep with, and a third. 

To wake me up at the voice of a bird ; 


The resonant far-listening morn. 
And the hoarse-whisper of the corn ; 


69 


The crickets mourning their comrades lost, 

In the night’s retreat from the gathering frost ; 

(Or is it their slogan, plaintive and shrill. 

As they beat on their corselets, valiant still ?) 

A hunger fit for the kings of the sea. 

And a loaf of bread for Dickon and me ; 

A thirst like that of the Thirsty Sword, 

And a jug of cider on the board ; 

An idle noon, a bubbling spring. 

The sea in the pine-tops murmuring; 

A scrap of gossip at the ferry ; 

A comrade neither glum nor merry, 

Asking nothing, revealing naught. 

But minting his words from a fund of thought, 

A keeper of silence eloquent. 

Needy, yet royally well content. 

Of the mettled breed, yet abhorring strife. 

And full of the mellow juice of life, 

A taster of wine, with an eye for a maid, 
Never too bold, and never afraid. 

Never heart-whole, never heart-sick, 

(These are the things I worship in Dick) 

No fidget and no reformer, just 
A calm observer of ought and must 


■ 70 


A lover of books, but a reader of man, 

No cynic and no charlatan. 

Who never defers and never demands, 

But, smiling, takes the world in his hands, — ^ 

Seeing it good as when God first saw 
And gave it the weight of his will for law. 

And O the joy that is never won. 

But follows and follows the journeying sun, 

By marsh and tide, by meadow and stream, 

A will-o’~the-wind, a light-o’-dream. 

Delusion afar, delight anear. 

From morrow to morrow, from year to year, 

A jack-oMantern, a fairy fire, 

A dare, a bliss, and a desire ! 

The racy smell of the forest loam. 

When the stealthy, sad-heart leaves go home ; 

(O leaves, O leaves, I am one with you. 

Of the mould and the sun and the wind and the dew!) 

The broad gold wake of the afternoon ; 

The silent fleck of the cold new moon ; 

The sound of the hollow sea’s release 
From stormy tumult to starry peace; 

With only another league to wend ; 

And two brown arms at the journey’s end ! 

These are the joys of the open road — 

For him who travels without a load. 


71 


A MORE ANCIENT MARINER 

By Bliss Carinan 

HE swarthy bee is a buccaneer, 
A burly velveted rover, 

Who loves the booming wind 
in his ear 

As he sails the seas of clover. 

A waif of the goblin pirate crew. 
With not a soul to deplore him. 

He steers for the open verge of blue 
With the filmy world before him. 

His flimsy sails abroad on the wind 
Are shivered with fairy thunder ; 

On a line that sings to the light of his wings 
He makes for the lands of wonder. 

He harries the ports of the Hollyhocks, 

And levies on poor Sweetbrier ; 

He drinks the whitest wine of Phlox, 

And the Rose is his desire. 

He hangs in the Willows a night and a day; 

He rifles the Buckwheat patches ; 

Then battens his store of pelf galore 
Under the tautest hatches. 

He WOOS the Poppy and weds the Peach, 

Inveigles Daffodilly, 

And then like a tramp abandons each 
For the gorgeous Canada Lily. 




72 


There’s not a soul in the garden world 
But wishes the day were shorter, 

When Mariner B. puts out to sea 
With the wind in the proper quarter. 

Or, so they say ! But I have my doubts; 

For the flowers are only human. 

And the valor and gold of a vagrant b,old 
Were always dear to woman. 

He dares to boast, along the coast. 

The beauty of Highland Heather, — 

How he and she, with night on the sea. 

Lay out on the hills together. 

He pilfers from every port of the wind. 

From April to golden autumn ; 

But the thieving ways of his mortal days 
Are those his mother taught him. 

His morals are mixed, but his will is fixed ; 

He prospers after his kind. 

And follows an instinct, compass-sure. 

The philosophers call blind. 

And that is why, when he comes to die. 

He’ll have an easier sentence 
Than some one I know who thinks just so, 
And then leaves room for repentance. 

He never could box the compass round ; 

He doesn’t know port from starboard ; 

But he knows the gates of the Sundown Straits, 
Where the choicest goods are harbored. 


73 


He never could see the Rule of Three, 

But he knows the rule of thumb 

Better than Euclid’s, better than yours, 

Or the teachers’ yet to come. 

He knows the smell of the hydromel 
As if two and two were five ; 

And hides it away for a year and a day 
In his own hexagonal hive. 

Out in the day, hap-hazard, alone. 

Booms the old vagrant hummer. 

With only his whim to pilot him 

Through the splendid vast of summer. 

He steers and steers on the slant of the gale. 
Like the fiend or Vanderdecken ; 

And there’s never an unknown course to sail 
But his crazy log can reckon. 

He drones along with his rough sea-song 
And the throat of a salty tar. 

This devil-may-care, till he makes his lair 
By the light of a yellow star. 

He looks like a gentleman, lives like a lord, 
And works like a Trojan hero; 

Then loafs all winter upon his hoard. 

With the mercury at zero. 


74 


THE SONG THE ORIOLE SINGS 

By W illiam Dean Howells 

HERE is a bird that comes and 
sings 

In a professor’s garden-trees ; 
Upon the English oak he swings, 
And tilts and tosses in the 
breeze. 

I know his name, I know his note. 

That so with rapture takes my soul ; 

Like flame the gold beneath his throat. 

His glossy cope is black as coal. 

O oriole, it is the song 

You sang me from the cottonwood. 

Too young to feel that I was young. 

Too glad to guess if life were good. 

And while I hark, before my door, 

Adown the dusty Concord Road, 

The blue Miami flows once more 
As by the cottonwood it flowed. 

And on the bank that rises steep. 

And pours a thousand tiny rills, 

From death and absence laugh and leap 
My school-mates to their flutter-mills. 




75 


The blackbirds jangle in the tops 
Of hoary-antlered sycamores *, 

The timorous killdee starts and stops 
Among the drift-wood on the shores. 

Below, the bridge — a noonday fear 
Of dust and shadow shot with sun — 
Stretches its gloom from pier to pier, 

Far unto alien coasts unknown. 

And on these alien coasts, above. 

Where silver ripples break the stream’s 
Long blue, from some roof-sheltering grove , 

A hidden parrot scolds and screams. 

Ah, nothing, nothing ! Commonest things : 

A touch, a glimpse, a sound, a breath — 

It is a song the oriole sings — 

And all the rest belongs to death. 

But oriole, my oriole. 

Were some bright seraph sent from bliss 
With songs of heaven to win my soul 
From simple memories such as this. 

What could he tell to tempt my ear 

F rom you ? What high thing could there be, 
So tenderly and sweetly dear 
As my lost boyhood is to me ? 


76 


APRIL 

By Lloyd Mifflin 

^^The Fields of Dawn.’’) 

MONG the maple-buds we hear 
the tones 

Of April’s earliest bees, al- 
though the days 
Seemed Riled by Mars. The 
veil of gathering haze 
Spread round the silent hills 
in bluest zones. 

Deep in the pines the breezes stirred the cones, 

As on we strolled within the wooded ways, 
There where the brook, transilient, softly plays 
With muffled plectrum on her harp of stones ; 
Onward we pushed amid the yielding green 
And light rebounding of the cedar boughs. 

Until we heard — the forest lanes along. 

Above the lingering drift of latest snows — 

The Thrush outpour, from coverts still unseen. 
His rare ebulliency of liquid song ! 




77 


SUMMER 

By Lloyd Mifflin 

(From The Fields of Dawn” ) 

OW well we loved, in Summer 
solitude 

To stroll on lonely ridges far 
away, 

Where beeches, with their 
boles of Quaker gray. 
Murmured at times a sylvan 
interlude ! 

We he:ird each songster warble near her brood. 
And from the lowland where the mowers lay 
Came now and then faint fragrance from the hay, 
That touched the heart to reminiscent mood. 
We peered down wooded steeps, and saw the sun 
Shining in front, tip all the grape-vines wild. 

And edge with light the bowlders’ lichened 
groups ; 

While, deep within the gorge, the tinkling run 
Coiled through the hollows with its silvered 
loops 

Down to the waiting River, thousand-isled. 



78 


AUTUMN 

By Lloyd M0in 

* The Fields of Dawn”) 

HE nearest woodlands wore a 
misty veil ; 

From phantom trees we saw 
the last leaf float ; 

The hills though near us 
seemed to lie remote, 
Wrapped in a balmy vapor, 
golden — pale. 

From somewhere hidden in the dreamy dale — 
Latona’s sorrow yet within her note — 

Reft of her comrades, o’er the stubbled oat 
We heard the calling of the lonely quail. 

In the bare corn-field stalked the silent crow ; 

Too faint the breeze to make the grasses sigh, 
And not one carol came from out the sky ; 

But o’er the golden gravelly levels low. 

The brook, loquacious, still went lilting by 
As liquidly as Lara, long ago. 




79 


GOLDEN CROWN SPARROW OF 
ALASKA 


By John Burroughs 



H, minstrel of these borean hills, 
Where twilight hours are 
long, 

I would my boyhood’s fragrant 
days 

Had known thy plaintive 
song; 


Had known thy vest of ashen gray, 
Thy coat of drab and brown, 

The bands of jet upon thy head 
That clasp thy golden crown. 

We heard thee in the cold White Pass, 
Where cloud and mountain meet. 
Again where Muir’s great glacier shone 
Far spread beneath our feet. 


I bask me now on emerald heights 
To catch thy faintest strain. 

But cannot tell if in thy lay 
Be more of joy or pain. 

Far off behold the snow-white peaks 
Athwart the sea’s blue-shade ; 
Anear there rise green Kadiak hills. 
Wherein thy nest is made. 



8o 


I hear the wild bee’s mellow chord, 
In airs that swim above ; 

The lesser hermit tunes his flute 
To solitude and love. 

But thou, sweet singer of the wild, 

I give more heed to thee ; 

Thy wistful note of fond regret 
Strikes deeper chords in me. 

Farewell, dear bird ! I turn my face 
To other skies than thine — 

A thousand leagues of land and sea 
Between thy home and mine. 


TO THE LAPLAND LONGSPUR 

By John Burroughs 

I 

H, thou northland bobolink. 

Looking over Summer’s brink 
Up to Winter, worn and dim, 
Peering down from mountain 
rim. 

Something takes me in thy note. 
Quivering wing, and bubbling 
throat ; 

Something moves me in thy ways — 

Bird, rejoicing in thy days. 

In thy upward-hovering flight. 

In thy suit of black and white, 



8i 


Chestnut cape and circled crown, 
In thy mate of speckled brown ; 
Surely I may pause and think 
Of my boyhood’s bobolink. 

II 

Soaring over meadows wild 
(Greener pastures never smiled) ; 
Raining music from above, 

Full of rapture, full of love ; 
Frolic, gay and debonair. 

Yet not all exempt from care, 

For thy nest is in the grass, 

And thou worriest as I pass : 

But nor hand nor foot of mine 
Shall do harm to thee or thine ; 

I, musing, only pause to think 
Of my boyhood’s bobolink. 

III 

But no bobolink of mine 
Ever sang o’er mead so fine. 
Starred with flowers of every hue, 
Gold and purple, white and blue ; 
Painted-cup, anemone, 
Jacob’s-ladder, fleur-de-lis. 
Orchid, harebell, shooting-star, 
Crane’s-bill, lupine, seen afar. 
Primrose, poppy, saxifrage. 
Pictured type on Nature’s page — 


82 


These and others here unnamed, 

In northland gardens, yet untamed. 
Deck the fields where thou dost sing. 
Mounting up on trembling wing ; 
While in wistful mood I think 
Of my boyhood’s bobolink. 

IV 

On Unalaska’s emerald lea. 

On lonely isles in Bering Sea, 

On far Siberia’s barren shore. 

On north Alaska’s tundra floor. 

At morn, at noon, in pallid night. 

We heard thy song and saw thy flight. 
While I, sighing, could but think 
Of my boyhood’s bobolink. 

Unalaska, July i8, 1899 


THE CUP 

By John Townsend ^ronjohridge 

T he cup I sing is a cup of gold. 
Many and many a century old, 
Sculptured fair, and over-filled 
With wine of a generous vintage, spilled 
In crystal currents and foaming tides 
All round its luminous, pictured sides. 


83 


Old Time enamelled and embossed 
This ancient cup at an infinite cost. 

Its frame he wrought of metal that run 
Red from the furnace of the sun. 

Ages on ages slowly rolled 
Before the glowing mass was cold, 

And still he toiled at the antique mould, — 
Turning it fast in his fashioning hand, 
Tracing circle, layer, and band. 

Carving figures quaint and strange. 

Pursuing, through many a wondrous change, 
The symmetry of a plan divine. 

At last he. poured the lustrous wine. 

Crowned high the radiant wave with light. 
And held aloft the goblet bright. 

Half in shadow, and wreathed in mist 
Of purple, amber, and amethyst. 

This i§ the goblet from whose brink 
All creatures that have life must drink : 
Foemen and lovers, haughty lord. 

And sallow beggar with lips abhorred. 

The new-born infant, ere it gain 

The mother’s breast, this wine must drain. 

The oak with its subtile juice is fed. 

The rose drinks till her cheeks are red. 

And the dimpled, dainty violet sips 
The limpid stream with loving lips. 

It holds the blood of sun and star. 

And all pure essences that are : 

No fruit so high on the heavenly vine. 
Whose golden hanging clusters shine 


84 


On the far-off shadowy midnight hills, 

But some sweet influence it distils 
That slideth down the silvery rills. 

Here Wisdom drowned her dangerous thought, 
The early gods their secrets brought ; 

Beauty, in quivering lines of light. 

Ripples before the ravished sight ; 

And the unseen mykic spheres combine 
To charm the cup and drug the wine. 

All day I drink of the wine, and deep 
In its stainless waves my senses steep ; 

All night my peaceful soul lies drowned 
In hollows of the cup profound ; 

Again each morn I clamber up 
The emerald crater of the cup. 

On massive knobs of jasper stand 
And view the azure ring expand : 

I watch the foam-wreaths toss and swim 
In the wine that o’erruns the jewelled rim : — 
Edges of chrysolite emerge. 

Dawn-tinted, from the misty surge : 

My thrilled, uncovered front I lave. 

My eager senses kiss the wave. 

And drain, with its viewless draught, the lore 
That kindles the bosom’s secret core. 

And the fire that maddens the poet’s brain 
With wild sweet ardor and heavenly pain. 


85 


TROUTING 


Bj John I'oicnsend I’rozuhndge 

1ITH slender rod, and line, and 
reel. 

And feather-fly with sting of 
steel. 

Whipping the brooks down sun- 
lit glades. 

Wading the streams in woodland 
shades, 

I come to the trouter’s paradise : 

The flashing fins leap twice or thrice : 

Then idle on this gray bowlder lie 
My crinkled line and colored fly. 

While in the foam-flecked, glossy pool 
The shy trout lurk secure and cool. 



A rock-lined, wood-embosomed nook, — 
Dim cloister of the chanting brook ! 

A chamber within the channelled hills, 
Where the cold crystal brims and spills, 
By dark-brOwed caverns blackly flows, 
trails from the cleft like crumbling snows. 
And purls and plashes, breathing round 
A soft, suffusing mist of sound. 

Under a narrow belt of sky 
Great bowlders in the torrent lie, 

Huge stepping-stones where Titans cross ! 
Quaint broideries of vines and moss, 


86 


Of every loveliest hue and shape, 

With tangle and braid and tassel drape 
The beetling rocks, and veil the ledge, 

And trail long fringe frorn the cataract’s edge. 
A hundred rills of nectar drip 
From that Olympian beard and lip! 

And, see ! far on, it seems as if 
In every crevice along the cliff 
Some wild plant grew : the eye discerns 
An ivied castle : feathery ferns 
Nod from the frieze, and tuft the tall 
Dismantled turret and ruined wall. 

Strange gusts from deeper solitudes 
Waft pungent odors of the woods. 

The small, bee-haunted basswood-blooms 
Drop in the gorge their faint perfumes. 

Here all the wildwood flowers encamp. 

That love the dimness and the damp. 

High overhead the blue day shines ; 

The glad breeze swings in the singing pines. 
Somewhere aloft in the boughs is heard 
The fine note of some warbling bird. 

In the alders, dank with noonday dews, 

A restless cat-bird darts and mews. 

Dear world ! let summer tourists range 
Your great highways in quest of change, 

Go seek Niagara and the sea, — 

This little nook sufficeth me 1 


So wild, so fresh, so solitary, — 

I muse in its green sanctuary. 

And breathe into my inmost sense 
A pure, sweet, thrilling influence, 

A bliss even innocent sport would stain, 

And dear old Walton’s art profane. 

Here, lying beneath this leaning tree. 

On the soft bank, it seems to me. 

The winds that visit this lonely glen 
Should soothe the souls of sorrowing men,— - 
The waters over these ledges curled 
Might cool the heart of a fevered world ! 


THE PEWEE 

Townsend l^rowhridge 

HE listening Dryads hushed the 
woods ; 

The boughs were thick, and 
thin and few 

The golden ribbons fluttering 
through ; 

Their sun-embroidered, leafy 
hoods 

The lindens lifted to the blue : 

Only a little forest-brook 

The farthest hem of silence shook : 

When in the hollow shades I heard, — 

Was it a spirit, or a bird ? 


By John 




88 


Or, strayed from Eden, desolate. 

Some Peri calling to her mate. 

Whom nevermore her mate would cheer ? 
Pe-ri ! pe-ri ! peer ! ’’ 

Through rocky clefts the brooklet fell 
With plashy pour, that scarce was sound, 
But only quiet less profound, 

A stillness fresh and audible : 

A yellow leaflet to the ground 
Whirled noiselessly : with wing of gloss 
A hovering sunbeam brushed the moss, 

And, wavering brightly over it. 

Sat like a butterfly alit : 

The owlet in his open door 
Stared roundly: while the breezes bore 
The plaint to far-off places drear, — 

Pe-ree ! pe-ree ! peer ! ” 

To trace it in its green retreat 

I sought among the boughs in vain ; 

And followed still the wandering strain, 

So melancholy and so sweet 

The dim-eyed violets yearned with pain, 
’Twas now a sorrow in the air. 

Some nymph’s immortalized despair 
Haunting the woods and waterfalls ; 

And now, at long, sad intervals. 

Sitting unseen in dusky shade. 

His plaintive pipe some fairy played, 

With long-drawn cadence thin and clear,— 
“ Pe-wee ! pe-wee ! peer ! ” 


89 


Long-drawn and clear its closes were, — 
As if the hand of Music through 
The sombre robe of Silence drew 
A thread of golden gossamer : 

So pure a flute the fairy blew. 

Like beggared princes of the wood, 

In silver rags the birches stood ; 

The hemlocks, lordly counsellors. 

Were dumb; the sturdy servitors. 

In beechen jackets patched and gray, 
Seemed waiting spellbound all the day 
That low, entrancing note to hear, — 
Pe-wee ! pe-wee ! peer ! ’’ 

I quit the search, and sat me down 
Beside the brook, irresolute. 

And watched a little bird in suit 
Of sober olive, soft and brown. 

Perched in the maple-branches, mute : 
With greenish gold its vest was fringed. 
Its tiny cap was ebon-tinged. 

With ivory pale its wings were barred. 
And its dark eyes were tender-starred. 

Dear bird,” I said, what is thy name ? 
And thrice the mournful answer came, 
So>faint and far, and yet so near, — 

“ Pe-wee ! pe-wee ! peer ! ” 

For so I found my forest bird, — 

The pewee of the loneliest woods. 

Sole singer in these solitudes. 

Which never robin’s whistle stirred. 
Where never bluebird’s plume intrudes. 


90 


Quick darting through the dewy morn, 

The redstart trilled his twittering horn, 

And vanished in thick boughs : at even. 

Like liquid pearls fresh showered from heaven. 
The high notes of the lone wood-thrush 
Fall on the forest’s holy hush : 

But thou all day complainest here, — 

Pe-wee ! pe-wee ! peer ! ” 

Hast thou, too, in thy little breast. 

Strange longings for a happier lot, — 

For love, for life, thou know’st not what,— > 
A yearning, and a vague unrest. 

For something still which thou hast not? — > 
Thou soul of some benighted child 
That perished, crying in the wild ! 

Or lost, forlorn, and wandering maid. 

By love allured, by love betrayed. 

Whose spirit with her latest sigh 
Arose, a little winged cry. 

Above her chill and mossy bier ! 

‘‘ Dear me ! dear me ! dear ! ” 

Ah, no such piercing sorrow mars 
The pewee’s life of cheerful ease ! 

He sings, or leaves his song to seize 
An insect sporting in the bars 

Of mild bright light that gild the trees : 

A very poet he ! For him 
All pleasant places still and dim : 

His heart, a spark of heavenly fire. 

Burns with undying, sweet desire : 


91 


And so he sings ; and so his song, 
Though heard not by the hurrying throng, 
Is solace to the pensive ear : 

Pewee ! pewee ! peer ! ” 


TO THE DANDELION 

By James Russell Lowell 

EAR common flower, that 
grow’st beside the way, 
Fringing the dusty road with 
harmless gold, 

First pledge of blithesome May, 
Which children pluck, and, full 
of pride uphold, 

Highrhearted buccaneers, o’erjoyed that they 
An Eldorado in the grass have found. 

Which not the rich earth’s ample round 
May match in wealth, thou art more dear to me 
Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be. 

Gold such as thine ne’er drew the Spanish prow 
Through the primeval hush of Indian seas. 

Nor wrinkled the lean brow 
Of age, to rob the lover’s heart of ease ; 

’Tis the Spring’s largess, which she scatters now 
To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand. 

Though most hearts never understand 
To take it at God’s value, but pass by 
The oflFered wealth with unrewarded eye. 



92 


Thou art my tropics and mine Italy ; 

To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime; 

The eyes thou givest me 
Are in the heart, and heed not space or time : 

Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee 
Feels a more summer-like warm ravishment 
In the white lily’s breezy tent, 

His fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first 
From the dark green thy yellow circles burst. 

Then think I of deep shadows on the grass, 

Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze, 

Where, as the breezes pass. 

The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways. 

Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass. 

Or whiten in the wind, of waters blue 
That from the distance sparkle through 
Some woodland gap, and of a sky above. 

Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth 
move. 

My childhood’s earliest thoughts are linked with 
thee ; 

The sight of thee calls back the robin’s song. 

Who, from the dark old tree 
Beside the door, sang clearly all day long. 

And I, secure in childish piety. 

Listened as if I heard an angel sing 
With news from heaven, which he could bring 
Fresh every day to my untainted ears 
When birds and flowers and I were happy 
peers. 


93 


How like a prodigal doth nature seem, 

When thou, for all thy gold, so common art ! 

Thou teachest me to deem 
More sacredly of every human heart. 

Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam 
Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show, 
Did we but pay the love we owe, 

And with a child’s undoubting wisdom look 
On all these living pages of God’s book. 


THE BIGLOW PAPERS 

No. 6 

By James Russell Lowell 

, COUNTRY-BORN an^ bred, 
know where to find 
Some blooms thet make the sea- 
son suit the mind. 

An’ seem to metch the doubtin’ 
bluebird’s notes, — 
Half-vent’rin’ liverworts in furry 
coats, 

Bloodroots, whose rolled-up leaves ef you oncurl. 
Each on ’em’s cradle to a baby-pearl, — 

But these are jes’ Spring’s pickets ; sure ez sin, 
The rebble frosts ’ll try to drive ’em in ; 

For half our May’s so awfully like May n’t, 
’Twould rile a Shaker or an evrige saint ; 

Though I own up I like our back’ard springs 
Thet kind o’ haggle with their greens an’ things. 




94 


An’ when you ’mos give up, ’ithout more words 
Toss the fields full o’ blossoms, leaves, an’ birds: 
Thet’s Northun natur’ slow an’ apt to doubt. 

But when it does git stirred, ther’ ’s no gin-out ! 

Fust come the blackbirds clatt’rin’ in tall trees. 

An’ settlin’ things in windy Congresses, — 

Queer politicians, though, for I’ll be skinned 
Ef all on ’em don’t head aginst the wind. 

’Fore long the trees begin to show belief, — 

The maple crimsons to a coral-reef. 

Then saffern swarms swing off from all the willers 
So plump they look like yaller caterpillars. 

Then gray hossches’nuts leetle hands unfold 
Softer’n a baby’s be at three days old : 

Thet’s robin-redbreast’s almanick ; he knows 
Thet alter this ther’s only blossom-snows ; 

So, choosin’ out a handy crotch an’ spouse. 

He goes to plast’rin’ his adobe house. 

Then seems to come a hitch, — things lag behind. 
Till some fine mornin’ Spring makes up her mind. 
An’ ez, when snow-swelled rivers cresh their dams 
Heaped-up with ice thet dovetails in an’ jams, 

A leak comes spirtin’ thru some pin-hole cleft. 
Grows stronger, fercer, tears out right an’ left. 
Then all the waters bow themselves an’ come, 
Suddin, in one gret slope o’ shedderin’ foam, 

Jes’ so our Spring gits everythin’ in tune 
An’ gives one leap from April into June : 

Then all comes crowdin’ in ; afore you think. 
Young oak-leaves mist the side-hill woods with pinkj 


95 


The catbird in the laylock-bush is loud ; 

The orchards turn to heaps o’ rosy cloud ; 
Red-cedars blossom tu, though few folks know it, 
An’ look all dipt in sunshine like a poet; 

The lime-trees pile their solid stacks o’ shade 
An’ drows’ly simmer with the bees’ sweet trade ; 

In ellum-shrouds the flashin’ hangbird clings 
An’ for the summer vy’ge his hammock slings ; 

All down the loose-walled lanes in archin’ bowers 
The barb’ry droops its strings o’ golden flowers, 
Whose shrinkin’ hearts the school-gals love to try 
With pins, — they’ll worry yourn so, boys, bimeby ! 
But I don’t love your cat’logue style, — do you ? — 
Ez ef to sell oflF Natur’ by vendoo ; 

One word with blood in ’t’s twice ez good ez two : 
’Nuff sed, June’s bridesman, poet o’ the year. 
Gladness on wings, the bobolink, is here ; 

Half-hid in tip-top apple-blooms he swings. 

Or climbs aginst the breeze with quiverin’ wings. 
Or, givin’ way to ’t in a mock despair. 

Runs down, a brook o’ laughter, thru the air. 


DAYBREAK 

By Henry JVadsworth Longfellow 

A WIND came up out of the sea. 

And said, ‘‘ O mists, make room for 
me.” 

It hailed the ships, and cried, Sail on. 

Ye mariners, the night is gone,” 


96 


And hurried landward far away, 

Crying, Awake ! it is the day.” 

It said unto the forest, Shout ! 

Hang all your leafy banners out ! ” 

It touched the wood-bird’s folded wing, 
And said, O bird, awake and sing.” 

And o’er the farms, O chanticleer. 

Your clarion blow; the day is near.” 

It whispered to the fields of corn. 

Bow down, and hail the coming morn.” 

It shouted through the belfry-tower. 
Awake, O bell ! proclaim the hour.” 

It crossed the churchyard with a sigh. 
And said, Not yet ! in quiet lie.” 


RAIN IN SUMMER 

By Henry IV adsworth Longfellow 

OW beautiful is the rain ! 

After the dust and heat. 

In the broad and fiery street. 

In the narrow lane. 

How beautiful is the rain ! 

How it clatters along the roofs, 
Like the tramp of hoofs ! 

How it gushes and struggles out 

From the throat of the overflowing spout ! 



97 


Across the window pane 
It pours and pours ; 

And swift and wide, 

With a muddy tide, 

Like a river down the gutter roars 
The rain, the welcome rain ! 

The sick man from his chamber looks 
At the twisted brooks ; 

He can feel the cool 
Breath of each little pool ; 

His fevered brain 
Grows calm again, 

And he breathes a blessing on the rain 

From the neighboring school 
Come the boys. 

With more than their wonted noise 
And commotion ; 

And down the wet streets 
Sail their mimic fleets, 

Till the treacherous pool 
Ingulfs them in its whirling 
And turbulent ocean. 

In the country, on every side. 

Where far and wide, 

Like a leopard’s tawny and spotted hide, 
Stretches the plain. 

To the dry grass and the drier grain 
How welcome is the rain ! 


98 


In the furrowed land 

The toilsome and patient oxen stand ; 

Lifting the yoke-encumbered head, 

With their dilated nostrils spread, 

They silently inhale 
The clover-scented gale. 

And the vapors that arise 

From the well-watered and smoking soil. 

For this rest in the furrow after toil 

Their large and lustrous eyes 

Seem to thank the Lord, 

More than man’s spoken word. 

Near at hand, 

From under the sheltering trees. 

The farmer sees 

His pastures, and his fields of grain. 

As they bend their tops 

To the numberless beating drops 

Of the incessant rain. 

He counts it as no sin 

That he sees therein 

Only his own thrift and gain. 

These, and far more than these, 

The Poet sees ! 

He can behold 
Aquarius old 

Walking the fenceless fields of air; 

And from each ample fold 
Of the clouds about him rolled 
Scattering everywhere 


99 


The showery rain, 

As the farmer scatters his grain. 

He can behold 
Things manifold 

That have not yet been wholly told, — 

Have not been wholly sung nor said. 

For his thought, that never stops. 

Follows the water-drops 
Down to the graves of the dead, 

Down through chasms and gulfs profound, 
To the dreary fountain-head 
Of lakes and rivers under ground ; 

And sees them, when the rain is done, 

On the bridge of colors seven 
Climbing up once more to heaven. 

Opposite the setting sun. 

Thus the Seer, 

With vision clear. 

Sees forms appear and disappear. 

In the perpetual round of strange 
Mysterious change 

From birth to death, from death to birth. 
From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth ; 
Till glimpses more sublime 
Of things, unseen before. 

Unto his wondering eyes reveal 

The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel 

Turning forevermore 

In the rapid and rushing river of Time. 


100 


THE BRIDGE 

By Henry IV adsworth Longfell(rw 

STOOD on the bridge at mid- 
night, 

As the clocks were striking 
the hour, 

And the moon rose o’er the city, 
Behind the dark church- 
tower. 

1 saw her bright reflection 
In the waters under me, 

Like a golden goblet falling 
And sinking into the sea. 

And far in the hazy distance 
Of that lovely night in June, 

The blaze of the flaming furnace 
Gleamed redder than the moon. 

Among the long, black rafters 
The wavering shadows lay. 

And the current that came from the ocean 
Seemed to lift and bear them away. 

As, sweeping and eddying through them. 

Rose the belated tide. 

And, streaming into the moonlight. 

The seaweed floated wide. 



lOI 


And like those waters rushing 
Among the wooden piers 

A flood of thoughts came o’er me 
That filled my eyes with tears. 

How often, O how often, 

In the days that had gone by, 

I had stood on that bridge at midnight, 
And gazed on that wave and sky ! 

How often, O how often, 

I had wished that the ebbing tide 

Would bear me away on its bosom 
O’er the ocean wild and wide ! 

For my heart was hot and restless, 
And my life was full of care. 

And the burden laid upon me 

Seemed greater than I could bear. 

But now it has fallen from me. 

It is buried in the sea ; 

And only the sorrow of others 
Throws its shadow over me. 

Yet whenever I cross the river 
On its bridge with wooden piers. 

Like the odor of brine from the ocean 
Comes the thought of other years. 

And I think how many thousands 
Of care-encumbered men, 

Each bearing his burden of sorrow, 
Have crossed the bridge since then. 


102 


I see the long procession 
Still passing to and fro, 

The young heart hot and restless, 
And the old subdued and slow ! 

And for ever and for ever 
As long as the river flows. 

As long as the heart has passions, 
As long as life has woes ; 

The moon and its broken reflection 
And its shadows shall appear. 

As the symbol of love in heaven. 
And its wavering image here. 


MY AVIARY 

By Oliver W endell Holmes 

HROUGH my north window.^ 
in the wintry weather, — 
My airy oriel on the river 
shore, — 

I watch the sea-fowl as they flock 
together 

Where late the boatman flashed 
his dripping oar. 

The gull, high floating, like a sloop unladen. 

Lets the loose water waft him as it will ; 

The duck, round-breasted as a rustic maiden, 
Paddles and plunges, busy, busy still. 




103 


I see the solemn gulls in council sitting 

On some broad ice-floe, pondering long and late, 
While overhead the home-bound ducks are flitting. 
And leave the tardy conclave in debate, 

Those weighty questions in their breasts revolving 
Whose deeper meaning science never learns. 
Till at some reverend elder’s look dissolving. 

The speechless senate silently adjourns. 

But when along the waves the shrill north-easter 
Shrieks through the laboring coaster’s shrouds 
Beware ! ” 

The pale bird, kindling like a Christmas feaster 
When some wild chorus shakes the vinous air. 

Flaps from the leaden wave in fierce rejoicing. 
Feels heaven’s dumb lightning thrill his torpid 
nerves. 

Now on the blast his whistling plumage poising. 
Now wheeling, whirling in fantastic curves. 

Such is our gull ; a gentleman of leisure. 

Less fleshed than feathered ; bagged you’ll find 
him such ; 

His virtue silence ; his employment pleasure ; 

Not bad to look at, and not good for much. 

What of our duck ? He has some highbred 
cousins, — 

His Grace the Canvas-back, My Lord the 
Brant, — 

Jnas and Anser — both served up by dozens. 

At Boston’s Rocher^ half-way to Nahant. 


104 


As for himself, he seems alert and thriving, 

Grubs up a living somehow — what, who knows ? 
Crabs ? mussels ? weeds ? — Look quick ! there’s 
one just diving ! 

Flop! Splash! his white breast glistens — down 
he goes ! 

And while he’s under — just about a minute — 

I take advantage of the fact to say 
His fishy carcase has no virtue in it 

The gunning idiot’s worthless hire to pay. 

He knows you ! ‘‘ sportsmen ” from suburban 

alleys. 

Stretched under seaweed in the treacherous 
punt ; 

Knows every lazy, shiftless lout that sallies 

Forth to waste powder — as he says, to hunt.” 

I watch you with a patient satisfaction. 

Well pleased to discount your predestined luck ; 
The float that figures in your sly transaction 
Will carry back a goose, but not a duck. 

Shrewd is our bird ; not easy to outwit him ! 

Sharp is the outlook of those pin-head eyes ; 

Still, he is mortal and a shot may hit him. 

One cannot always miss him if he tries. 

Look ! there’s a young one, dreaming not of 
danger ; 

Sees a flat log come floating down the stream ; 
Stares undismayed upon the harmless stranger ; 
Ah! were all strangers harmless as they seem i 


105 


Habet ! a leaden shower his breast has shattered ; 

Vainly he flutters, not again to rise ; 

His soft white plumes along the waves are scattered ; 
Helpless the wing that braved the tempest lies. 

He sees his comrades high above him flying 
To seek their nests among the island reeds ; 
Strong is their flight ; all lonely he is lying 
Washed by the crimsoned water as he bleeds. 

0 Thou who carest for the falling sparrow, 

Canst Thou the sinless sufferer’s pang forget ? 

Or is Thy dread account-book’s page so narrow 
Its one long column scores Thy creatures’ debt ? 

Poor gentle guest, by nature kindly cherished, 

A world grows dark with thee in blinding death ; 
One little gasp — thy universe has perished, 

Wrecked by the idle thief who stole thy breath! 

Is this the whole sad story of creation. 

Lived by its breathing myriads o’er and o’er, — 
One glimpse of day, then black annihilation,^ — 

A sunlit passage to a sunless shore ? 

Give back our faith, ye mystery-solving lynxes ! 

Robe us once more in heaven-aspiring creeds ! 
Happier was dreaming Egypt with her sphynxes. 
The stony convent with its cross and beads ! 

How often gazing where a bird reposes. 

Rocked on the wavelets, drifting with the tide, 

1 lose myself in strange metempsychosis 

And float a sea-fowl at a sea-fowl’s side. 


io6 


From rain, hail, snow in feathery mantle muffled. 
Clear-eyed, strong-limbed, with keenest sense to 
hear 

My mate soft murmuring, who, with plumes un- 
ruffled. 

Where’er I wander still is nestling near ; 

The great blue hollow like a garment o’er me ; 

Space all unmeasured, unrecorded time ; 

While seen with inward eye moves on before me 
Thought’s pictured train in wordless pantomime. 

A voice recalls me. From my window turning 
I find myself a plumeless biped still ; 

No beak, no claws, no sign of wings discerning, — 
In fact with nothing bird-like but my quill. 

MIDSUMMER 

By Oliver IVendell Holmes 

ERE ! sweep these foolish leaves 
away, 

I will not crush my brains to- 
day ! 

Look ! are the southern curtains 
drawn ? 

Fetch me a fan, and so begone ! 

Not that, the palm-tree’s rustling leaf 
Brought from a parching coral-reef! 

Its breath is heated ; — I would swing 
The broad gray plumes, — the eagle’s wing. 

I hate these roses’ feverish blood ! — 

Pluck me a half-blown lily-bud, 



A long-stemmed lily from the lake, 

Cold as a coiling water-snake. 

Rain me sweet odors on the air, 

And wheel me up my Indian chair. 

And spread some book not overwise 
Flat out before my sleepy eyes. 

— Who knows it not, — this dead recoil 
Of weary fibres stretched with toil, — 

The pulse that flutters faint and low 
When Summer’s seething breezes blow ! 

O Nature ! bare thy loving breast. 

And give thy child one hour of rest, — 
One little hour to lie unseen 
Beneath thy scarf of leafy green ! 

So, curtained by a singing pine. 

Its murmuring voice shall blend with mine. 
Till, lost in dreams, my faltering lay 
In sweeter music dies away. 


TO AN INSECT 

By Oliver Wendell Holmes. 

I LOVE to hear thine earnest voice, 
Wherever thou art hid. 

Thou testy little dogmatist. 

Thou pretty Katydid ! 

Thou mindest me of gentlefolks, — 
Old gentlefolks are they, — 

Thou say’st an undisputed thing 
In such a solemn way. 


io8 


Thou art a female, Katydid ! 

I know it by the trill 
That quivers through thy piercing notes, 
So petulant and shrill ; 

I think there is a knot of you 
Beneath the hollow tree, — 

A knot of spinster Katydids, — 

Do Katydids drink tea ? 

0 tell me where did Katy live. 

And what did Katy do ? 

And was she very fair and young. 

And yet so wicked, too ? 

Did Katy love a naughty man. 

Or kiss more cheeks than one ? 

1 warrant Katy did no more 
Than many a Kate has done. 

Dear me ! I’ll tell you all about 
My fuss with little Jane, 

And Ann, with whom I used to walk 
So often down the lane. 

And all that tore their locks of black. 

Or wet their eyes of blue, — 

Pray tell me, sweetest Katydid, 

What did poor Katy do ? 

Ah no ! the living oak shall crash. 

That stood for ages still. 

The rock shall rend its mossy base 
And thunder down the hill. 


109 


Before the little Katydid 
Shall add one word, to tell 
The mystic story of the maid 

Whose name she knows so well. 

Peace to the ever-murmuring race ! 

And when the latest one 
Shall fold in death her feeble wings 
Beneath the autumn sun, 

Then shall she raise her fainting voice, 
And lift her drooping lid. 

And then the child of future years 
Shall hear what Katy did. 


THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE- 

TREE 

By IV illiam Cullen Bryant 

OME, let us plant the apple- 
tree. 

Cleave the tough greensward 
with the spade ; 

Wide let its hollow bed be made ; 
There gently lay the roots, and 
there 

uld with kindly care. 

And press it o’er them tenderly. 

As, round the sleeping infant’s feet, 

We softly fold the cradle-sheet ; 

So plant we the apple-tree. 



I lo 


What plant we in this apple-tree ? 

Buds, which the breath of summer days 
Shall lengthen into leafy sprays ; 

Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breastc 
Shall haunt and sing and hide her nest ; 

We plant, upon the sunny lea, 

A shadow for the noontide hour, 

A shelter from the summer shower, 

When we plant the apple-tree. 

What plant we in this apple-tree ? 

Sweets for a hundred flowery springs 
To load the May-wind’s restless wings, 
When, from the orchard-row, he pours 
Its fragrance through our open doors ; 

A world of blossoms for the bee, 

Flowers for the sick girl’s silent room. 

For the glad infant sprigs of bloom. 

We plant with the apple-tree. 

What plant we in this apple-tree ? 

Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, 

And redden in the August noon. 

And drop, when gentle airs come by. 

That fan the blue September sky. 

While children come, with cries of gleCr 
And seek them where the fragrant grass 
Betrays their bed to those who pass. 

At the foot of the apple-tree. 

And when, above this apple-tree. 

The winter stars are quivering bright. 

And winds go howling through the night. 


Ill 


Girls, whose young eyes o’erflow with mirth. 
Shall peel its fruit by cottage-hearth, 

And guests in prouder homes shall see. 
Heaped with the grape of Cintra’s vine 
And golden orange of the line, 

The fruit of the apple-tree. 

The fruitage of this apple-tree 
Winds and our flag of stripe and star 
Shall bear to coasts that lie afar. 

Where men shall wonder at the view, 

And ask in what fair groves they grew ; 

And sojourners beyond the sea 
Shall think of childhood’s careless day, 

And long, long hours of summer play. 

In the shade of the apple-tree. 

Each year shall give this apple-tree 
A broader flush of roseate bloom, 

A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, - 
And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower, 

The crisp brown leaves in thicker showen 
The years shall come and pass, but we 
Shall hear no longer, where we lie. 

The summer’s songs, the autumn’s sigh. 

In the boughs of the apple-tree. 

And time shall waste this apple-tree. 

Oh, when its aged branches throw 
Thin shadows on the ground below. 

Shall fraud and force and iron will 
Oppress the weak and helpless still ? 


112 


What shall the tasks of mercy be, 

Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears 
Of those who live when length of years 
Is wasting this little apple-tree ? 

Who planted this old apple-tree?’^ 
The children of that distant day 
Thus to some aged man shall say ; 

And, gazing on its mossy stem. 

The gray-haired man shall answer them : 

A poet of the land was he. 

Born in the rude but good old times ; 

’Tis said he made some quaint old rhymes. 
On planting the apple-tree.” 


THE PATH 


By William Cullen Bryant 

^H|P|HE path we planned beneath 

^ 1 October’s sky, 

\ J Along the hillside, through the 

■ woodland shade. 

Is finished ; thanks to thee, whose 
kindly eye 

Has watched me, as I plied 
the busy spade ; 

Else had I wearied, ere this path of ours 
Had pierced the woodland to its inner bowers. 



Yet, ’twas a pleasant toil to trace and beat. 
Among the glowing trees, this winding way. 
While the sweet autumn sunshine, doubly sweet, 
Flushed with the ruddy foliage, round us lay, 




As if some gorgeous cloud of morning stood, 

In glory, mid the arches of the wood. 

A path ! what beauty does a path bestow 

Even on the dreariest wild ! its savage nooks 

Seem homelike where accustomed footsteps go. 

And the grim rock puts on familiar looks. 

The tangled swamp, through which a pathway 
strays. 

Becomes a garden wit;h strange flowers and sprays. 

See from the weedy earth a rivulet break 
And purl along the untrodden wilderness ; 

There the shy cuckoo comes his thirst to slake, 
There the shrill jay alights his plumes to dress ; 

And there the stealthy fox, when morn is gray. 

Laps the clear stream and lightly moves away. 

But let a path approach that fountain’s brink. 

And nobler forms of life, behold ! are there : 

Boys kneeling with protruded lips to drink. 

And slender maids that homeward slowly bear 

The brimming pail, and busy dames that lay 

Their webs to whiten in the summer ray. 

Then know we that for herd and flock are poured 
Those pleasant streams that o’er the pebbles * 
slip; 

Those pure sweet waters sparkle on the board ; 
Those fresh cool waters wet the sick man’s lip ; 

Those clear bright waters from the font are shed^ 

In dews of baptism, on the infant’s head. 


What different steps the rural footway trace ! 

The laborer afield at early day ; 

The schoolboy sauntering with uneven pace ; 

The Sunday worshipper in fresh array ; 

And mourner in the weeds of sorrow drest ; 

And, smiling to himself, the wedding guest. 

There he who cons a speech and he who hums 
His yet unfinished verses, musing walk. 

There, with her little brood, the matron comes. 

To break the spring flower from its juicy stalk; 
And lovers, loitering, wonder that the moon 
Has risen upon their pleasant stroll so soon. 

Bewildered in vast woods, the traveller feels 
His heavy heart grow lighter, if he meet 
The traces of a path, and straight he kneels. 

And kisses the dear print of human feet. 

And thanks his God, and journeys without fear. 
For now he knows the abodes of men are near. 

Pursue the slenderest path across the lawn ; 

Lo ! on the broad highway it issues forth. 

And, blended with the greater track, goes on. 

Over the surface of the mighty earth. 

Climbs hills and crosses vales, and stretches far. 
Through silent forests, toward the evening star — 

And enters cities murmuring with the feet 
Of multitudes, and wanders forth again. 

And joins the climes of frost to climes of heat. 
Binds East to West, and marries main to main, 
Nor stays till at the long-resounding shore 
Of the great deep, where paths are known no more. 


Oh, mighty instinct, that dost thus unite 

Earth’s neighborhoods and tribes with friendly 
bands. 

What guilt is theirs who, in their greed or spite. 
Undo thy holy work with violent hands. 

And post their squadrons, nursed in war’s grim 
trade. 

To bar the ways for mutual succor made ! 


JUNE 

By William Cullen Bryant 

GAZED upon the glorious sky 
And the green mountains 
round, , 

And thought that when I came 
to lie 

At rest within the ground, 
’Twere pleasant, that in flowery 
June, 

When brooks send up a cheerful tune. 

And groves a joyous sound. 

The sexton’s hand, my grave to make. 

The rich, green mountain-turf should break. 

A cell within the frozen mould, 

A coffin borne through sleet. 

And icy clods above it rolled. 

While fierce the tempests beat- — 

Away ! — I will not think of these — 

Blue be the sky and soft the breeze. 

Earth green beneath the feet, 




And be the damp mould gently pressed 
Into my narrow place of rest. 

There through the long, long summer hours, 
The golden light should lie, 

And thick young herbs and groups of flowers 
Stand in their beauty by. 

The oriole should build and tell 
His love-tale close beside my cell ; 

The idle butterfly 

Should rest him there, and there be heard 
The housewife bee and humming-bird. 

And what if cheerful shouts at noon 
Come from the village sent, 

Or songs of maids, beneath the moon 
With fairy laughter blent ? 

And what if, in the evening light. 

Betrothed lovers walk in sight 
Of my low monument ? 

I would the lovely scene around 
Might know no sadder sight nor sound. 

I know that I no more should see 
The season’s glorious show. 

Nor would its brightness shine for me. 

Nor its wild music flow; 

But if, around my place of sleep. 

The friends I love should come to weep^ 
They might not haste to go. 

Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom 
Should keep them lingering by my tomb. 


II7 


These to their softened hearts should bear 
The thought of what has been, 

And speak of one who cannot share 
The gladness of the scene ; 

Whose part, in all the pomp that fills 
The circuit of the summer hills. 

Is that his grave is green ; 

And deeply would their hearts rejoice 
To hear again his living voice. 


TO A WATERFOWL 

By illiam Cullen Bryant 

HITHER, midst falling dew. 
While glow the heavens with 
the last steps of day, 

Far, through their rosy depths, 
dost thou pursue 
Thy solitary way ? 

Vainly the fowler’s eye 

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky. 

Thy figure floats along. 

Seek’st thou the plashy brink 

Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide. 

Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 
On the chafed ocean-side ? 



ii8 


There is a Power whose care 

Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, — 

The desert and illimitable air — 

Lone wandering, but not lost. 

All day thy wings have fanned, 

At that far height the cold, thin atmosphere, 

Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land. 
Though the dark night is near. 

And soon that toil shall end ; 

Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest. 

And scream among thy fellows : reeds shall bend. 
Soon, o’er thy sheltered nest. 

Thou’rt gone, the abyss of heaven 

Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet, on my heart 

Deeply has sunk the lesson thou hast given. 

And shall not soon depart. 

He who, from zone to zone. 

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain 
flight, 

In the long way that I must tread alone. 

Will lead my steps aright. 


II9 


AN INVITATION TO THE 
COUNTRY 

By W illiam Cullen Bryant 

LREADY, close by our summer 
dwelling, 

The Easter sparrow repeats 
her song ; 

A merry warbler, she cHides the 
blossoms — 

The idle blossoms that sleep 
so long. 

The bluebird chants, from the elm’s long branches, 
A hymn to welcome the budding year. 

The south wind wanders from field to forest. 

And softly whispers, The Spring is here.” 

Come, daughter mine, from the gloomy city. 
Before those lays from the elm have ceased \ 

The violet breathes, by our door, as sweetly 
As in the air of her native East. 

Though many a flower in the wood is waking, 
The daffodil is our doorside queen ; 

She pushes upward the sward already. 

To spot with sunshine the early green. 

No lays so joyous as these are warbled 
From wiry prison in maiden’s bower; 

No pampered bloom of the green-house chamber 
Has half the charm of the lawn’s first flower. 



120 


Yet these sweet sounds of the early season, 

And these fair sights of its sunny days, 

Are only sweet when we fondly listen, 

And only fair when we fondly gaze. 

There is no glory in star or blossom 
Till looked upon by a loving eye ; 

There is no fragrance in April breezes 

Till breathed with joy as they wander by. 

Come, Julia dear, for the sprouting willows. 

The opening flowers, and the gleaming brooks. 

And hollows, green in the sun, are waiting 
Their dower of beauty from thy glad looks. 


THE GLADNESS OF NATURE 

By W illiam Cullen Bryant 

S this a time to be cloudy and sad. 
When our mother Nature 
laughs around ; 

When even the deep blue heav- 
ens look glad. 

And gladness breathes from 
the blossoming ground ? 

There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren 
And the gossip of swallows through all the sky ; 
The ground-squirrel gayly chirps by his den. 

And the wilding bee hums merrily by. 




I2I 


The clouds are at play in the azure space 

And their shadows at play on the bright-green 
vale, 

And here they stretch to the frolic chase, 

And there they roll on the easy gale. 

There’s a dance of leaves in that aspen bower. 
There’s a titter of winds in that beechen tree, 
There’s a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the 
flower. 

And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea. 

And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles 
On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray. 

On the leaping waters and gay young isles ; 

Ay, look, and he’ll smile thy gloom away. 


TO THE SMALL CELANDINE^ 



W illiani JV ordsworth 

ANSIES, lilies, kingcups, daisies, 
Let them live upon their praises ; 
Long as there’s a sun that sets. 
Primroses will have their glory ; 
Long as there are violets. 

They will have a place in story : 
There’s a flower that shall be 


mine. 


’Tis the little Celandine. 


Eyes of some men travel far 
For the finding of a star; 

* Common Pilewort. 


122 


Up and down the heavens they go, 
Men that keep a mighty rout ! 

Pm as great as they, I trow. 

Since the day I found thee out, 
Little Flower ! — Pll make a stir, 
Like a sage astronomer. 

Modest, yet withal an Elf 
Bold, and lavish of thyself ; 

Since we needs must first have met 
I have seen thee, high and low, 
Thirty years or more, and yet 
’Twas a face I did Jiot know; 

Thou hast now, go where I may^ 
Fifty greetings in a day. 

Ere a leaf is on a bush. 

In the time before the thrush 
Has a thought about her nest. 

Thou wilt come with half a call, 
Spreading out thy glossy breast 
Like a careless Prodigal ; 

Telling tales about the sun. 

When weVe little warmth, ornonCo 

Poets, vain men in their mood ! 
Travel with the multitude : 

Never heed them ; I aver 
That they all are wanton wooers ; 
But the thrifty cottager. 

Who stirs little out of doors, 

Joys to spy thee near her home ; 
Spring is coming. Thou art come ! 


123 


Comfort have thou of thy merit, 
Kindly, unassuming Spirit ! 
Careless of thy neighborhood. 
Thou dost show thy pleasant face 
On the moor, and in the wood. 

In the lane ; — there’s not a place, 
Howsoever mean it be. 

But ’tis good enough for thee. 

Ill befall the yellow flowers, 
Children of the flaring hours ! 
Buttercups, that will be seen. 
Whether we will see or no ; 
Others, too, of lofty mien ; 

They have done as worldlings do. 
Taken praise that should be thine. 
Little, humble Celandine ! 

Prophet of delight and mirth. 
Ill-requited upon earth ; 

Herald of a mighty band. 

Of a joyous train ensuing. 

Serving at my heart’s command. 
Tasks that are no tasks renewing, 
I will sing, as doth behove. 

Hymns in praise of what I love ! 


124 


THREE YEARS SHE GREW IN 
SUN AND SHOWER 

By IV illiam W ordsworth 

HREE years she grew in sun 
and shower 

Then Nature said, A lovelier 
flower 

On earth was never sown ; 
This Child I to myself will take ; 
She shall be mine, and I will make 
A Lady of my own. 

Myself will to my darling be 
Both law and impulse : and with me 
The Girl, in rock and plain. 

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 

Shall feel an overseeing power 
To kindle or restrain. 

She shall be sportive as the fawn 
That wild with glee across the lawn 
Or up the mountain springs ; 

And hers shall be the breathing balm, 

And hers the silence and the calm 
Of mute insensate things. 

The floating clouds their state shall lend 
To her; for her the willow bend ; 




125 


Nor shall she fail to see 
Even in the motions of the Storm 
Grace that shall mould the Maiden’s form 
By silent sympathy. 

The stars of midnight shall be dear 
To her; and she shall lend her ear 
In many a secret place 
Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 
And beauty born of murmuring sound 
Shall pass into her face. 

And vital feelings of delight 
Shall rear her form to stately height, 

Her virgin bosom swell ; 

Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
While she and I together live 
Here in this happy dell.” 

Thus Nature spake — The work was done — 
How soon my Lucy’s race was run ! 

She died, and left to me 

This heath, this calm and quiet scene; 

The memory of what has been, 

And never more will be. 


A slumber did my spirit seal, 

I had no human fears : 

She seemed a thing that could not feel 
The touch of earthly years. 


126 


No motion has she now, no force ; 

She neither hears nor sees ; 

Rolled round in earth’s diurnal course 
With rocks, and stones, and trees ! 


THE NIGHTINGALE 

By William Wordsworth 

NIGHTINGALE ! thou surely 
art 

A creature of a fiery heart — 
These notes of thine — they 
pierce and pierce ; 
Tumultuous harmony and fierce ! 
Thou sing’st as if the God of 
wine 

Had helped thee to a Valentine ; 

A song in mockery and despite 
Of shades, and dews, and silent night ; 

And steady bliss, and all the loves 
Now sleeping in these peaceful groves. 

I heard a Stock-dove sing or say 
His homely tale, this very day ; 

His voice was buried among trees. 

Yet to be come-at by the breeze : 

He did not cease ; but cooed — and cooed ; 
And somewhat pensively he wooed : 

He sang of love with quiet blending. 

Slow to begin, and never ending; 

Of serious faith, and inward glee ; 

That was the song — the song for me" 



127 


TO A SKYLARK 

By WilUarn IVordsworth 

P with me ! up with me into the 
clouds ! 

For thy song, Lark, is strong ; 
Up with me, up with me into the 
clouds ! 

Singing, singing, 

With clouds and sky about thee 
ringing. 

Lift me, guide me, till I find 

That spot which seems so to thy mind ! 

I have walked through wildernesses dreary, 

And to-day my heart is weary \ 

Had I now the wings of a Faery, 

Up to thee would I fly. 

There’s madness about thee, and joy divine 
In that song of thine ; 

Lift me, guide me, high and high 
To thy banqueting-place in the sky. 

Joyous as morning. 

Thou art laughing and scorning ; 

Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest, 

And, though little troubled with sloth. 

Drunken Lark ! thou wouldst be loth 
To be such a traveller as I. 



128 


Happy, happy Liver, 

With a soul as strong as a mountain river. 

Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver, 

I Joy and jollity be with us both ! 

Alas ! my journey, rugged and uneven. 

Through prickly moors or dusty ways must wind ; 
But hearing thee, or others of thy kind. 

As full of gladness and as free of heaven, 

I, with my fate contented, will plod on. 

And hope for higher raptures when life’s day is 
done. 


TINTERN ABBEY 

By IVilUam W ordszvorth 

HAVE learned 

To look on nature, not as in the 
hour 

Of thoughtless youth, but hearing 
oftentimes 

The still, sad music of humanity, 
Not harsh nor grating, though of 
ample power 
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 
A presence that disturbs me with the joy 
Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime 
Of something far more deeply interfused. 

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 

And the round ocean and the living air. 



129 


/Vnd the blue sky, and in the mind of man : 
a motion and a spirit, that impels 
All thinking things, all objects of all thought. 
And rolls thrbugh all things. Therefore am I still 
A lover of the meadows and the woods. 

And mountains; and of all that we behold 
From this green earth ; of all the mighty world 
Of eye, and ear, — both what they half create. 
And what perceive ; well pleased to recognize 
In nature and the language of the sense 
The anchor of my purest thoughts. 


TO THE CUCKOO 

By IVilliam IVordsworth 

BLITHE New-comer ! I have 
heard, 

I hear thee and rejoice. 

O Cuckoo ! shall I call thee 
Bird, 

Or but a wandering Voice ? 

While I am lying on the grass 
Thy twofold shout I hear. 

From hill to hill it seems to pass. 

At once far off, and near. 

Though babbling only to the Vale, 

Of sunshine and of flowers. 

Thou bringest unto me a tale 
Of visionary hours. 




130 


Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring ! 
Even yet thou art to me 
No Bird, but an invisible thing, 

A voice, a mystery ; 

The same whom in my school-boy days 
I listened to ; that Cry 
Which made me look a thousand ways 
In bush, and tree, and sky. 

To seek thee did I often rove 
Through woods and on the green ; 

And thou wert still a hope, a love ; 

Still longed for, never seen. 

And I can listen to thee yet ; 

Can lie upon the plain 
And listen, till I do beget 
That golden time again. 

O blessed Bird ! the earth we pace 
Again appears to be 
An unsubstantial, faery place, 

That is fit home for Thee ! 


A NIGHT PIECE* 

By IVilUam IVordsworth 

The sky is overcast 

With a continuous cloud of texture close, 

Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon, 

Which through that veil is indistinctly seen, 

A dull, contracted circle, yielding light 
So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls. 
Chequering the ground — from rock, plant, tree, or 
tower. 

At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam 
Startles the pensive traveller while he treads 
His lonesome path, with unobserving eye 
Bent earthwards ; he looks up — the clouds aVe 
split 

Asunder, — and above his head he sees 
The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens. 
There in a black-blue vault she sails along. 
Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small 
And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss 
Drive as she drives : how fast they wheel away. 
Yet vanish not ! — the wind is in the tree. 

But they are silent ; — still they roll along 
Immeasurably distant ; and the vault. 

Built round by those white clouds, enormous 
clouds. 

Still deepens its unfathomable depth. 

At length the Vision closes ; and the mind, 

* The poetical works of William Wordsworth. Edited by E. 
Dowden, 1892, Vol. 2, p. 88. 


132 


Not undisturbed by the delight it feels, 
Which slowly settles into peaceful calm, 
Is left to muse upon the solemn scene. 


TO MY SISTER 

By JVilliam IVordsworth 

Written at a small distance from my house, and sent by 
my little boy. 

T is the first mild day of March : 
Each minute sweeter than be- 
fore. 

The redbreast sings from the 
tall larch 

That stands beside our door. 

There is a blessing in the air. 

Which seems a sense of joy to yield 
To the bare trees, and mountains bare. 

And grass in the green field. 

My sister ! (’tis a wish of mine) 

Now that our morning meal is done. 

Make haste, your morning task resign ; 

Come forth and feel the sun. 

Edward will come with you ; — and, pray, 

Put on with speed your woodland dress ; 

And bring no book : for this one day 
We’ll give to idleness. 




133 


No joyless forms shall regulate 
Our living calendar : 

We from to-day, my Friend, will date 
The opening of the year. 

Love, now a universal birth. 

From heart to heart is stealing. 

From earth to man, from man to earth: 
— It is the hour of feeling. 

One moment now may give us more 
Than years of toiling reason : 

Our minds shall drink at every pore 
The spirit of the season. 

Some silent laws our hearts will make, 
Which they shall long obey : 

We for the year to come may take 
Our temper from to-day. 

And from the blessed power that rolls 
About, below, above. 

We’ll frame the measure of our souls : 
They shall be turned to love. 

Then come, my Sister; come, I pray. 
With speed put on your woodland dress 
And bring no book : for this one day 
We’ll give to idleness. 


134 


LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY 
SPRING 

By IV illiam IV ordsivorth 

HEARD a thousand blended 
notes, 

While in a grove I sate re- 
clined, 

In that sweet mood when 
pleasant thoughts 
Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 

To her fair works did Nature link 
The human soul that through me ran ; 

And much it grieved my heart to think 
What man has made of man. 

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, 

The periwinkle trailed its wreaths ; 
knd ’tis my faith that every flower 
Enjoys the air it breathes. 

The birds around me hopped and played ; 

Their thoughts I cannot measure : — 

But the least motion which they made. 

It seemed a thrill of pleasure. 

The budding twigs spread out their fan, 

To catch the breezy air; 

And I must think, do all I can. 

That there was pleasure there. 



135 


If this belief from heaven be sent, 
If such be Nature’s holy plan, 
Have I not reason to lament 
What man has made of man ? 


THERE WAS A BOY 

By William Wordsworth 

HERE was a Boy ; ye knew him 
well, ye cliffs 

And islands of Winander! — 
many a time. 

At evening, when the earliest 
stars began 

To move along the edges of the 
hills. 

Rising or setting, would he stand alone. 

Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake ; 

And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands 
Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth 
Uplifted, he, as through an instrument. 

Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls. 

That they might answer him. — And they would 
shout 

Across the watery vale, and shout again. 
Responsive to his call, — with quivering peals. 

And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud 
Redoubled and redoubled ; concourse wild 
Of jocund din ! And, when there came a pause 
Of silence such as baffied his best skill : 




136 


Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung 
Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise 
Has carried far into his heart the voice 
Of mountain torrents ; or the visible scene 
Would enter unawares into his mind 
With all its solemn imagery, its rocks. 

Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received 
Into the bosom of the steady lake. 

This boy was taken from his mates, and died 
In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. 
Pre-eminent in beauty is the vale 
Where he was born and bred : the church-yard 
hangs 

Upon a slope above the village school ; 

And, through that church-yard when my way has 
led 

On summer evenings, I believe that there 
A long half-hour together I have stood 
Mute — looking at the grave in which he lies! 


-UP! UP! MY FRIEND, AND QUIT 
YOUR BOOKS" 

By IVilliam JVordsworth 

U P ! up ! my Friend, and quit your books ; 
Or surely you’ll grow double : 

Up I up I my Friend, and clear your looks ; 
Why all this toil and troubJe ? 


137 


The sun, above the mountain’s head, 

A freshening lustre mellow 

Through all the long green fields has spread, 

His first sweet evening yellow. 

Rooks ! ’tis a dull and endless strife : , 

Come, hear the woodland linnet. 

How sweet his music ! on my life. 

There’s more of wisdom in it. 

And hark ! how blithe the throstle sings . 

He, too, is no mean preacher : 

Come forth into the light of things. 

Let Nature be your Teacher. 

She has a world of ready wealth. 

Our minds and hearts to bless — 
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, 
Truth breathed bv cheerfulness. 

One impulse from a vernal wood 
May teach you more of man. 

Of moral evil and of good. 

Than all the sages can. 

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings ; 

Our meddling intellect 

Misshapes ^he beauteous forms of things : — 
We murder to dissect. 

Enough of Science and of Art ; 

Close up these barren leaves ; 

Come forth, and bring with you a heart 
That watches and receives. 


DAFFODILS 

By IV illia?!! IV ordsworth 

WANDERED lonely as a cloud 
That floats on high o’er vales 
and hills, 

When all at once I saw a crowd, 
A host, of golden daffodils ; 
Beside the lake, beneath the trees. 
Fluttering and dancing in the 
breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 
-And twinkle on the milky way. 

They stretched in never-ending line 
Along the margin of a bay : 

Ten thousand saw I at a glance. 

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced, but they 
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee ; 

A poet could not but be gay 
In such a jocund company. 

I gazed — and gazed — but little thought 
What wealth the show to me had broughto 

% 

For oft, when on my couch I lie. 

In vacant or in pensive mood. 

They flash upon that inward eye 
Which is the bliss of solitude ; « 

And then my heart with pleasure fills, 

And dances with the daffodils. 



139 


MY HEART LEAPS UP WHEN I 
BEHOLD 

By William Wordsworth 

i heart leaps up when I behold 
A rainbow in the sky : 

So was it when my life began ; 
So is it now I am a man ; 

So be it when I shall grow old. 
Or let me die ! 

The Child is father of the Man ; 
And I could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety. 



^‘THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH 
WITH US" 

By William Wordsworth 

HE world is too much with us j 
late and soon, 

Getting and spending, we lay 
waste our powers : 

Little we see in Nature that is 
ours ; 

We have given our hearts away, 
a sordid boon ! 

This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; 

The winds that will be howling at all hours. 

And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers ; 
For this, for every thing, we are out of tune ; 





140 


It moves us not. — Great God ! I’d rather be 
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; 

So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; 
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea ; 

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 

TO A BUTTERFLY 

By William Wordsworth 

VE watched you now a full half- 
hour, 

Self-poised upon that yellow 
flower ; 

And, little Butterfly ! indeed 
I know not if you sleep or feed, 
How motionless ! — not frozen 
seas 

More motionless ! and then 

What joy awaits you, when the Dreeze 

Hath found you out among the trees. 

And calls you forth again ! 

This plot of Orchard-ground is ours ; 

My trees they are, my Sister’s flowers ; 

Here rest your wings when they are weary \ 

Here lodge as in a sanctuary ! 

Come often to us, fear no wrong; 

Sit near us on the bough ! 

We’ll talk of sunshine and of song. 

And summer days, when we were young ; 

Sweet childish days, that were as long 
As twenty days are now. 




AMONG THE HILLS 

By John Greenleaf IVhittier 



OR weeks the clouds had raked 
the hills 

And vexed the vales with 
raining, 

And all the woods were sad with 
mist, 

And all the brooks complain- 
ing. 


At last, a sudden night-storm tore 
The mountain veils asunder. 
And swept the valleys clean before 
The besom of the thunder. 


Through Sandwich notch the west-wind sang 
Good morrow to the cotter ; 

And once again Chocorua’s horn 
Of shadow pierced the water. 

Above his broad lake Ossipee, 

Once more the sunshine wearing. 

Stooped, tracing on that silver shield 
His grim armorial bearing. 

Clear drawn against the hard blue sky. 

The peaks had winter’s keenness ; 

And close, on autumn’s frost, the vales 

Had more than June’s fresh greenness<, 


142 


Again the sodden forest floors 

With golden lights were checkered, 

Once more rejoicing leaves in wind 

And sunshine danced and flickered. 

It was as if the summer’s late 
Atoning for its sadness 
Had borrowed every season’s charm 
To end its days in gladness. 

I call to mind those banded vales 
Of shadow and of shining, 

Through which, my hostess at my side, 

I drove in day’s declining. 

We held our sideling way above 

The river’s whitening shallows, 

By homesteads old, with wide-flung barns 

Swept through and through by swallows*, 

By maple orchards, belts of pine 
And larches climbing darkly 
The mountain slopes, and, over all. 

The great peaks rising starkly. 

You should have seen that long hill-range 
With gaps of brightness riven, — 

How through each pass and hollow streamed 
The purpling lights of heaven, — 

Rivers of gold-mist flowing down 

From far celestial fountains, — 

The great sun flaming through the rifts 
Beyond the wall of mountains ! 


H3 


We paused at last where home-bound cows 
Brought down the pasture’s treasure. 

And in the barn the rhythmic flails 
Beat out a harvest measure. 

We heard the night-hawk’s sullen plunge, 
The crow his tree-mates calling ; 

The shadows lengthening down the slopes 
About our feet were falling. 

And through them smote the level sun 
In broken lines of splendor. 

Touched the gray rocks and made the green 
Of the shorn grass more tender. 

The maples bending o’er the gate. 

Their arch of leaves just tinted 

With yellow warmth, the golden glow 
Of coming autumn hinted. 

Keen white between the farm-house showed. 
And smiled on porch and trellis. 

The fair democracy of flowers 
That equals cot and palace. 

And weaving garlands for her dog, 

’Twixt chidings and caresses, 

A human flower of childhood shook 
The sunshine from her tresses. 


144 


SNOW-BOUND 

By John Greenleaf Whittier 

HE sun that brief December 
day 

Rose cheerless over hills of gray, 
And, darkly circled, gave at noon 
A sadder light than waning 
moon. 

Slow tracing down the thickening 
sky 

Its mute and ominous prophecy, 

A portent seeming less than threat, 

It sank from sight before it set. 

A chill no coat, however stout, 

Of homespun stuff could quite shut out. 

A hard, dull bitterness of cold. 

That checked, mid-vein, the circling race 
Of life-blood in the sharpened face, 

The coming of the snow-storm told. 

The wind blew east ; we heard the roar 
Of Ocean on his wintry shore, 

And felt the strong pulse throbbing there 
Beat with low rhythm our inland air. 

Meanwhile we did our nightly chores, — 

Brought in the wood from out of doors, 

Littered the stalls, and from the mows 
Raked down the herd’s-grass for the cows ? 

Heard the horse whinnying for his corn ; 

And,, sharply clashing horn on horn. 



145 


Impatient down the stanchion rows 
The cattle shake their walnut bows ; 

While, peering from his early perch 
Upon the scaffold’s pole of birch, 

The cock his crested helmet bent. 

And down his querulous challenge sent. 

Unwarmed by any sunset light 
The gray day darkened into night, 

A night made hoary with the swarm. 

And whirl-dance of the blinding storm, 

As zigzag, wavering to and fro. 

Crossed and recrossed the winged snow : 
And ere the early bedtime came 
The white drift piled the window-frame. 
And through the glass the clothes-line posts 
Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts. 

So all night long the storm roared on : 

The morning broke without a sun , 

In tiny spherule traced with lines 
Of Nature’s geometric signs. 

In starry flake and pellicle. 

All day the hoary meteor fell ; 

And, when the second morning shone, 

We looked upon a world unknown. 

On nothing we could call our own. 

Around the glistening wonder bent 
The blue walls of the firmament. 

No cloud above, no earth below, — 

A universe of sky and snow ! 


146 


The old familiar sights of ours 

Took marvellous shapes; strange domes and towers 

Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood, 

Or garden-wall, or belt of wood ; 

A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed, 

A fenceless drift what once was road ; 

The bridle-post an old man sat 

With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat ; 

The well-curb had a Chinese roof ; 

And even the long sweep, high aloof 
In its slant splendor, seemed to tell 
Of Pisa’s leaning miracle. 

A prompt, decisive man, no breath 
Our father wasted : Boys, a path ! ” 

Well pleased (for when did farmer boy 
Count such a summons less than joy ?) 

Our buskins on our feet we drew ; 

With mittened hands, and caps drawn low^ 

To guard our necks and ears from snow, 

We cut the solid whiteness through. 

And, where the drift was deepest, made 
A tunnel walled and overlaid 
With dazzling crystal : we had read 
Of rare Aladdin’s wondrous cave. 

And to our own his name we gave. 

With many a wish the luck were ours 
To test his lamp’s supernal powers. 

We reached the barn with merry din. 

And roused the prisoned brutes within. 

The old horse thrust his long head out. 

And grave with wonder gazed about ; 


147 


The cock his lusty greeting said, 

And forth his speckled harem led ; 

The oxen lashed their tails, and hooked, 
And mild reproach of hunger looked ; 

The horned patriarch of the sheep, 

Like Egypt’s Amun roused from sleep. 
Shook his sage head with gesture mute. 

And emphasized with stamp of foot. 

All day the gusty north-wind bore 
The loosening drift its breath before ; 

Low circling round its southern zone. 

The sun through dazzling snow-mist shone* 
No church-bell lent its Christian tone 
To the savage air, no social smoke 
Curled over woods of snow-hung oak. 

A solitude made more intense 
By dreary-voiced elements. 

The shrieking of the mindless wind. 

The moaning tree-boughs swaying blind, 
And on the glass the unmeaning beat 
Of ghostly finger-tips of sleet. 

Beyond the circle of our hearth 
No welcome sound of toil or mirth 
Unbound the spell, and testified 
Of human life and thought outside. 

We minded that the sharpest ear 
The buried brooklet could not hear. 

The music of whose liquid lip 
Had been to us companionship. 

And, in our lonely life, had grown 
To have an almost human tone. 


148 


As night drew on, and, from the crest 
Of wooded knolls that ridged the west. 

The sun, a snow-blown traveller, sank * 
From sight beneath the smothering bank, 
We piled, with care, our nightly stack 
Of wood against the chimney-back, — 

The oaken log, green, huge, and thick, 

And on its top the stout back-stick; 

The knotty fore-stick laid apart, 

And filled between with curious art 
The ragged brush ; then, hovering near. 

We watched the first red blaze appear. 
Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam 
On whitewashed wall and sagging beam 
Until the old rude-furnished room 
Burst, flower-like, into rosy bloom ; 

While radiant with a mimic flame 
Outside the sparkling drift became. 

And through the bare-boughed lilac-tree 
Our own warm hearth seemed blazing free. 
The crane and pendent trammels showed. 
The Turks’ heads on the andirons glowed; 
While childish fancy prompt to tell 
The meaning of the miracle. 

Whispered the old rhyme : Under the tree^ 

When fire outdoors burns merrily^ 

There the witches are making tea^ 

The moon above the eastern wood 
Shone at its full ; the hill-range stood 
Transfigured in the silver flood. 

Its blov/n snows flashing cold and keen. 


M-9 


Dead white, save where some sharp ravine 
Took shadow, or the sombre green 
Of hemlocks turned to pitchy black 
Against the whiteness at their back. 

For such a world and such a night 
Most fitting that unwarming light. 

Which only seemed where’er it fell 
To make the coldness visible. 

Shut in from all the world without. 

We sat the clean-winged hearth about. 
Content to let the north-wind roar 
In baffled rage at pane and door, 

While the red logs before us beat 
The frost-line back with tropic heat ; 

And ever, when a louder blast 
Shook beam and rafter as it passed. 

The merrier up its roaring draught 
The great throat of the chimney laughed i 
The house-dog on his paws outspread 
Laid to the fire his drowsy head. 

The cat’s dark silhouette on the wall 
A couchant tiger’s seemed to fall ; 

And, for the winter fireside meet. 

Between the andirons’ straddling feet, 

The mug of cider simmered slow. 

The apples sputtered in a row. 

And, close at hand, the basket stood 
With nuts from brown October’s wood. 


150 


THE BAREFOOT BOY* 


By John Greenleaf Whittier 



LESSINGS on thee, little man, 
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan ! 
With thy turned-up pantaloons, 

I And thy merry whistled tunes ; 

I With thy red lip, redder still 
I Kissed by strawberries on the 

I hill ; 


With the sunshine on thy face. 
Through thy torn brim’s jaunty grace ; 
From my heart I give thee joy, — 

I was once a barefoot boy ! 

Prince thou art, — the grown-up man 
Only is republican. 

Let the million-dollared ride ! 

Barefoot, trudging at his side. 

Thou hast more than he can buy 
In the reach of ear and eye, — 
Outward sunshine, inward joy ; 
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy ! 


Oh for boyhood’s painless play. 

Sleep that wakes in laughing day. 

Health that mocks the doctor’s rules, 

Knowledge never learned of schools. 

Of the wild bee’s morning chase. 

Of the wild-flower’s time and place, 

*The Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier. Ticknor & 

Fields, 1869. 


Flight of fowl and habitude 
Of the tenants of the wood ; 

How the tortoise bears his shell, 

How the woodchuck digs his cell, 

And the ground-mole sinks his well; 
How the robin feeds her young. 

How the oriole’s nest is hung; 

Where the whitest lilies blow. 

Where the freshest berries grow. 

Where the groundnut trails its vine. 
Where the wood-grape’s clusters shine ; 
Of the black wasp’s cunning way. 
Mason of his walls of clay. 

And the architectural plans 
Of gray hornet artisans ! — 

For, eschewing books and tasks. 

Nature answers all he asks ; 

Hand in hand with her he walks. 

Face to face with her he talks. 

Part and parcel of her joy, — 

Blessings on the. barefoot boy ! 

Oh for boyhood’s time of June, 
Crowding years in one brief moon. 
When all things I heard or saw. 

Me, their master, waited for. 

I was rich in flowers and trees. 
Humming-birds and honey-bees ; 

For my sport the squirrel played. 

Plied the snouted mole his spade ; 

For my taste the blackberry cone 
Purpled over hedge and stone ; 


152 


Laughed the brook for my delight 
Through the day and through the night, 
Whispering at the garden wall, 

Talked with me from fall to fall ; 

Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond. 
Mine the walnut slopes beyond. 

Mine, on bending orchard trees. 

Apples of Hesperides ! 

Still as my horizon grew, 

Larger grew my riches too ; 

All the world I saw or knew 
Seemed a complex Chinese toy, 
Fashioned for a barefoot boy ! 

Oh for festal dainties spread, 

Like my bowl of milk and bread ; — 
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood. 

On the door-stone, gray and rude ! 

O’er me, like a regal tent. 
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent. 
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold. 
Looped in many a wind-swung fold ; 
While for music came the play 
Of the pied frogs’ orchestra ; 

And, to light the noisy choir. 

Lit the fly his lamp of fire. 

I was monarch ; pomp and joy 
Waited on the barefoot boy ! 

Cheerily, then, my little man. 

Live and laugh, as boyhood can ! 
Though the flinty slopes be hard, 
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward. 


153 


Every morn shall lead thee through 
Fresh baptisms of the dew ; 

Every evening from thy feet 
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat ; 

All too soon these feet must hide 
In the prison cells of pride, 

Lose the freedom of the sod, 

Like a colt’s for work be shod. 

Made to tread the mills of toil. 

Up and down in ceaseless moil ; 
Happy if their track be found 
Never on forbidden ground ; 

Happy if they sink not in 
Quick and treacherous sands of sin. 
Ah ! that thou couldst know thy joy, 
Ere it passes, barefoot boy ! 


THE BOBOLINK 


By Thomas Hill 



OBOLINK ! that in the mead- 


ow. 


Or beneath the orchard’s shadow, 
Keepest up a constant rattle 
Joyous as my children’s prattle, 
Welcome to the north again ! 
Welcome to mine ear thy strain, 
Welcome to mine eye the sight 
Of thy buff, thy black and white. 


154 


Brighter plumes may greet the sun 
By the banks of Amazon ; 

Sweeter tones may weave the spell 
Of enchanting Philomel ; 

But the tropic bird would fail, 

And the English nightingale, 

If we should compare their worth 
With thine endless, gushing mirth. 

When the ides of May are past, 

June and summer nearing fast. 

While from depths of blue above 
Comes the mighty breath of love. 
Calling out each bud and flower 
With resistless, secret power, — 
Waking hope and fond desire. 

Kindling the erotic fire, — 

Filling youths’ and maidens’ dreams 
With mysterious, pleasing themes ; 
Then, amid the sunlight clear 
Floating in the fragrant air, 

Thou dost fill each heart with pleasure 
By thy glad ecstatic measure. 

A single note, so sweet and low, 

Like a full heart’s overflow. 

Forms the prelude ; but the strain 
Gives us no such tone again ; 

For the wild and saucy song 
Leaps and skips the notes among, 
With such quick and sportive play, 
Ne’er was madder, merrier lay. 


155 


Gayest songster of the spring ! 

Thy melodies before me bring 
Visions of some dream-built land, 
Where, by constant zephyrs fanned, ' 

I might walk the livelong day. 
Embosomed in perpetual May. 

Nor care nor fear thy bosom knows ; 
For thee a tempest never blows ; 

But when our northern summer’s o’er, 
By Delaware’s or Schuylkill’s shore 
The wild rice lifts its airy head. 

And royal feasts for thee are spread. 
And when the winter threatens there, 
Thy tireless wings yet own no fear. 
But bear thee to more southern coasts, 
Far beyond the reach of frosts. 
Bobolink ! still may thy gladness 
Take from me all taints of sadness ; 
Fill my soul with trust unshaken 
In that Being who has taken 
Care for every living thing. 

In Summer, Winter, Fall, and Spring. 


THE VESPER SPARROW 

By Edith M. Thomas 

I T comes from childhood land. 

Where summer days are long 
And summer eves are bland, — 
A lulling good-night song. 


156 


Upon a pasture stone, 

Against the fading west, 

A small bird sings alone. 

Then dives and finds its nest. 

The evening star has heard. 

And flutters into sight ; 

O childhood’s vesper-bird. 

My heart calls back, Good-Night. 


THE GRASSHOPPER 

By Edith M, Thomas ' 

HUTTLE of the sunburnt grass, 
Fifer in the dun cuirass. 

Fifing shrilly in the morn, 
Shrilly still at eve unworn ; 

Now to rear, now in the van. 
Gayest of the elfin clan : 

Though I watch their rustling 
flight, 

I can never guess aright 
Where their lodging-places are ; 

’Mid some daisy’s golden star. 

Or beneath a roofing leaf. 

Or in fringes of a sheaf. 

Tenanted as soon as bound ! 

Loud thy reveille doth sound. 

When the earth is laid asleep. 

And her dreams are passing deep. 



157 


Or mid-August afternoons ; 

And through all the harvest moons, 
Nights brimmed up with honeyed peace, 
Thy gainsaying doth not cease. 

When the frost comes, thou art dead ; 
We along the stubble tread. 

On blue, frozen morns, and note 
No least murmur is afloat : 

Wondrous still our fields are then, 

Fifer of the elfin men ! 


A WORD WITH A SKYLARK 

By Sarah Biatt 

•rice of Homesickness. ) 

this be all, for which I’ve lis- 
tened long. 

Oh, spirit of the dew ! 

You did not sing to Shelley such 
a song 

As Shelley sung to you. 

Yet, with this ruined Old World for a nest. 
Worm-eaten through and through, — 

This waste of grave-dust stamped with crown and 
crest, — 

What better could you do ? 

Ah me ! but when the world and I were young. 
There was an apple-tree. 

There was a voice came in the dawn and sung 
The buds awake — ah me ! 




158 


Oh, Lark of Europe, downward fluttering near. 
Like some spent leaf at best. 

You’d never sing again if you could hear 
My Blue-Bird of the West ! 


IN THE HAUNTS OF BASS AND 

BREAM 

Maurice T^ho?npson 

I 

REAMS come true, and every- 
thing 

Is fresh and lusty in the spring. 

In groves, that smell like am- 
bergris. 

Wind-songs, bird-songs, never cease. 

Go with me down by the stream. 

Haunt of bass and purple bream ; 

Feel the pleasure, keen and sweet. 

When the cool waves lap your feet ; 

Catch the breath of moss and mould, 

Hear the grosbeak’s whistle bold ; 

See the heron all alone 
Mid-stream on a slippery stone, 

Or, on some decaying log. 

Spearing snail or water-frog ; 




159 


See the shoals of sun-perch shine 
Among the pebbles smooth and fine, 

Whilst the sprawling turtles swim 
In the eddies cool and dim ! 

II 

The busy nuthatch climbs Kis tree, 
Around the great bole spirally, 

Peeping into wrinkles gray, 

Under ruffled lichens gay. 

Lazily piping one sharp note 
From his silver mailed throat; 

And down the wind the catbird’s song 
A slender medley trails along. 

Here a grackle chirping low. 

There a crested vireo ; 

Deep in tangled underbrush 
Flits the shadowy hermit-thrush ; 

Cooes the dove, the robin trills. 

The crows caw from the airy hills ; 

Purple finch and pewee gray. 
Blue-bird, swallow, oriole gay, — 

Every tongue of Nature sings ; 

The air is palpitant with wings ! 

Halcyon prophecies come to pass 
In the haunts of bream and bass. 


i6o 


III 

Bubble, bubble, flows the stream. 

Like an old tune through a dream. 

Now I cast my silken line ; 

See the gay lure spin and shine. 

While with delicate touch I feel 
The gentle pulses of the reel. 

Halcyon laughs and cuckoo cries ; 
Through its leaves the plane-tree sighs. 

Bubble, bubble, flows the stream. 

Here a glow and there a gleam ; 

Coolness all about me creeping, 
Fragrance all my senses steeping, — 

Spicewood, sweet-gum, sassafras, 
Calamus and water-grass. 

Giving up their pungent smells, 

Drawn from Nature’s secret wells ; 

On the cool breath of the morn, 
Perfume of the cock-spur thorn, 

Green spathes of the dragon-root, 
Indian turnip’s tender shoot, 

Dogwood, red-bud, elder, ash, 

Snowy gleam and purple flash. 

Hillside thickets, densely green, 

That the partridge revels in ! 


i6i 


IV 

I see the morning-glory’s curl, 

The curious star-flower’s pointed whorl ; 

Hear the woodpecker, rap-a-tap ! 

See him with his cardinal’s cap ! 

And the querulous, leering jay, 

How he clamors for a fray ! 

Patiently I draw and cast. 

Keenly expectant till, at last. 

Comes a flash, down in the stream, 
Never made by perch or bream ; 

Then a mighty weight I feel. 

Sings the line and whirs the reel ! 

V 

Out of a giant tulip-tree 
A great gay blossom falls on me ; 

Old gold and fire its petals are. 

It flashes like a falling star. 

A big blue heron flying by 
Looks at me with a greedy eye. 

I see a striped squirrel shoot 
Into a hollow maple-root ; 

A bumble-bee with mail all rust. 

His thighs puffed out with anther-dust. 


i 62 


Clasps a shrinking bloom about, . 

And draws her amber sweetness out. 

VI 

Bubble, bubble, flows the stream, 

Like a song heard in a dream. 

A white-faced hornet hurtles by. 

Lags a turquoise butterfly, — 

One intent on prey and treasure. 

One afloat on tides of pleasure ! 

Sunshine arrows, swift and keen. 

Pierce the burr-oak’s helmet green. 

VII 

I follow where my victim leaps 
Through tangles of rank water-weeds. 

O’er stone and root and knotty log. 

O’er faithless bits of reedy bog. 

I wonder will he ever stop ? 

The reel hums like a humming top ! 

Through graceful curves he sweeps the line. 
He sulks, he starts, his colors shine. 

Whilst I, all flushed and breathless, tear 
Through lady-fern and maiden’s-hair. 


i63 


And in my straining fingers feel 
The throbbing of the rod and reel ! 

A thin sandpiper, wild with fright, 

Goes into ecstasies of flight ; 

A gaunt green bittern quits the rushes, 
The yellow-throat its warbling hushes ; 

Bubble, bubble, flows the stream. 

Like an old tune through a dream ! 

VIII 

At last he tires, I reel him in ; 

I see the glint of scale and fin. 

The crinkled halos round him break. 
He leaves gay bubbles in his wake, 

I raise the rod, I shorten line. 

And safely land him, — he is mine ! 

IX 

The belted halcyon laughs, the wren 
Comes twittering from its brushy den ; 

The turtle sprawls upon its log, 

I hear the booming of a frog, 

Liquidaiiioer’s keen perfume. 
Sweet-punk, calamus, tulip bloom ; 


164 


Dancing wasp and dragon-fly, 
Wood-thrush whistling tenderly ; 

Damp cool breath of moss and mould, 
Noontide’s influence manifold ; 

Glimpses of a cloudless sky, — 

Soothe me as I resting lie. 

Bubble, bubble, flows the stream. 

Like low music through a dream. 


A TOUCH OF NATURE 

By Tthomas Bailey Aldrich 

HEN first the crocus thrusts its 
point of gold 

Up through the still snow- 
drifted garden mould. 

And folded green things in dim 
woods unclose 

Their crinkled spears, a sudden 
tremor goes 
Into my veins and makes me kith and kin 
To every wild-born thing that thrills and blows. 
Sitting beside this crumbling sea-coal fire. 

Here in the city’s ceaseless roar and din. 

Far from the brambly paths I used to know. 

Far from the rustling brooks that slip and shine 
Where the Neponset alders take their glow, 

I share the tremulous sense of bud and briar 
And inarticulate ardors of the vine. 



i65 


SEA LONGINGS 

By T'homas Bailey Aldrich 

IE first world-sound that fell 
upon my ear 

Was that of the great winds 
along the coast 

Crushing the deep-sea beryl on 
the rocks — 

The distant breakers’ sullen 
cannonade. 

Against the spires and gables of the town 
The white fog drifted, catching here and there 
At over-leaning cornice or peaked roof, 

And hung — weird gonfalons. The garden walks 
Were choked with leaves, and on their ragged 
biers 

Lay dead the sweets of summer — damask rose. 
Clove-pink, old-fashioned, loved New England 
flowers. 

Only keen salt sea-odors filled the air. 

Sea-sounds, sea-odors — these were all my world. 
Hence is it that life languishes with me 
Inland ; the valleys stifle me with gloom 
And pent-up prospects ; in their narrow bound 
Imagination flutters futile wings. 

Vainly I seek the sloping pearl-white sand 
And the mirage’s phantom citadels 
Miraculous, a moment seen, then gone. 

Among the mountains I am ill at ease, 



i66 


Missing the stretched horizon’s level line 
And the illimitable restless blue. 

The crag-torn sky is not the sky I love, 

But one unbroken sapphire spanning all ; 

And nobler than the branches of a pine 
Aslant upon a precipice’s edge 
Are the strained spars of some great battle-ship 
Plowing across the sunset. No bird’s lilt 
So takes me as the whistling of the gale 
Among the shrouds. My cradle-song was this, 
Strange inarticulate sorrows of the sea. 

Blithe rhythms upgathered from the Sirens’ caves. 
Perchance of earthly voices the last voice 
That shall an instant my freed spirit stay 
On this world’s verge, will be some message blown 
Over the dim salt lands that fringe the coast 
At dusk or when the tranced midnight droops 
With weight of stars, or haply just as dawn. 
Illumining the sullen purple wave. 

Turns the gray pools and willow-stems to gold. 

THE BLUEBIRD 

By Thomas Bailey Aldrich 

(From << Spring in New England.”) 

H ark ’tis the bluebird’s venturous strain 

High on the old fringed elm at the gate — . 
Sweet-voiced, valiant on the swaying bough, 
Alert, elate. 

Dodging the fitful spits of snow. 

New England’s poet-laureate 
Telling us Spring has come again ! 


167 


SONG OF THE RIVER 

By Charles Kingsley 

LEAR and cool, clear and cool, 
By laughing shallow, and dream- 
ing pool ; 

Cool and clear, cool and clear. 

By shining shingle, and foaming 
wear ; 

Under the crag where the ouzel 
sings. 

And the ivied wall where the church-bell rings, 
Undefiled, for the undefiled ; 

Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child. 

Dank^and foul, dank and foul. 

By the smoky town in its murky cowl ; 

Foul and dank, foul and dank. 

By wharf and sewer and slimy bank ; 

Darker and darker the further I go. 

Baser and baser the richer I grow ; 

Who dare sport with the sin-defiled ? 

Shrink from me, turn from me, mother and child. 

Strong and free, strong and free. 

The floodgates are open, away to the sea, 

Free and strong, free and strong. 

Cleansing my streams as I hurry along 
To the golden sands, and the leaping bar. 

And the taintless tide that awaits me afar. 



i68 


As I lose myself in the infinite main, 

Like a soul that has sinned and is pardoned again. 
Undefiled, for the undefiled; 

Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child. 


THE ROSE IN OCTOBER 

By Mary T'owfiley 



And cawing crows 


LATE and sweet, too sweet, 
too late ! 

What nightingale will sing to 
thee ? 

The empty nest, the shivering 
tree. 

The dead leaves by the garden 
gate, ^ 

for thee will wait, 

O sweet and late ! 


Where wert thou when the soft June nights 
Were faint with perfume, glad with song ? 
Where wert thou when the days were long 
And steeped in summer’s young delights ? 

What hopest thou now but checks and slights, 

Brief days, lone nights ? 

Stay ! there’s a gleam of winter wheat 
Far on the hill ; down in the woods 
A very heaven of stillness broods ; 

And through the mellow sun’s noon heat, 

Lo, tender pulses round thee beat, 

O late and sweet ! 


169 


NOVEMBER 

By C. L. Cleaveland 

HEN thistle-blows do lightly 
float 

About the pasture-height, 

And shrills the hawk a parting 
note, 

And creeps the frost at night. 
Then hilly ho ! though singing 
so. 

And whistle as I may. 

There comes again the old heart pain 
Through all the livelong day. 

In high wind creaks the leafless tree 
And nods the fading fern ; 

The knolls are dun as snow-clouds be. 

And cold the sun does burn. 

Then ho, hollo ! though calling so, 

I cannot keep it down ; 

The tears arise unto my eyes. 

And thoughts are chill and brown. 

Far in the cedars’ dusky stoles. 

Where the sere ground-vine weaves. 

The partridge drums funereal rolls 
Above the fallen leaves. 

And hip, hip, ho ! though cheering so. 

It stills no whit the pain ; 

For drip, drip, drip, from bare branch-tip, 

I hear the year’s last rain. 





So drive the cold cows from the hill, 
And call the wet sheep in; 

And let their stamping clatter fill 
The barn with warming din. 

And ho, folk, ho ! though it is so 
That we no more may roam. 

We still will find a cheerful mind 
Around the fire at home ! 


THE HUMMING-BIRD 

By Ednah Froctor Clarke 
FIaNCER of air, 

Flashing thy flight aci oss the 
noontide hour. 

To pierce and pass ere it is full 
aware 

Each wondering flower ! 

Jewelled coryphee. 

With quivering wings like shielding gauze out- 
spread. 

And measure like a gleaming shuttle’s play 
With unseen thread ! 



The phlox, milk-white. 

Sways to thy whirling ; stirs each warm rose breast ; 
But not for these thy palpitant delight. 

Thy rhythmic quest ; 

Swift weaves thy maze 

Where flaunts the trumpet-vine its scarlet pride. 
Where softer fire, behind its chaliced blaze, 

Doth fluttering hide. 


The grave thrush sings 
His love-call, and the nightingale’s romance 
Throbs through the twilight ; thou hast but thy 
wings, 

Thy sun-thrilled dance. 

Yet doth love’s glow 
Burn in the ruby of thy restless throat, 

Guiding thy voiceless ecstasy to know 
The richest note 

Of brooding thrush ! 

Now for thy joy the emptied air doth long j 
Thine is the nested silence, and the hush 
That needs no song. 


FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW 


By Frank Dempster Sherman 



ORN is the winter rug of white, 
And in the snow-bare spots 
once more 

Glimpses of faint green grass in 
sight, — 

Spring’s footprints on the 
' floor. 


Upon the sombre forest gates 

A crimson flush the mornings catch, 
The token of the Spring, who waits 
With finger on the latch. 


172 


Blow, bugles of the south, and win 

The warders from their dreams too long. 
And bid them let the new guest in 
With her glad hosts of song. 

She shall make bright the dismal ways 
With broideries of bud and bloom. 

With music fill the nights and days 
And end the garden’s gloom. 

Her face is lovely with the sun ; 

Her voice — ah, listen to it now ! 

The silence of the year is done : 

The bird is on the bough ! 

Spring here, — by what magician’s touch ? 

’Twas winter scarce an hour ago. 

And yet I should have guessed as much, 
Those footprints in the snow ! 


TO THE CAT-BIRD 

Anonymous 

Y OU, who would with wanton art 
Counterfeit another’s part. 

And with noisy utterance claim 
Right to an ignoble name, — 
Inharmonious ! — why must you. 

To a better self untrue. 

Gifted with the charm of song. 

Do the generous gift such wrong? 


173 


- - I, I 

Delicate and downy throat, 

Shaped for pure, melodious note, — 
Silvery wings of softest gray, — 

Bright eyes glancing every way, — 
Graceful outline, — motion free : 

Types of perfect harmony ! 

Ah ! you much mistake your duty, 

Mating discord thus with beauty, — - 
^Mid these heavenly sunset gleams. 

Vexing the smooth air with screams, •— > 
Burdening the dainty breeze 
With insane discordancies. 

I have heard you tell a tale 
Tender as the nightingale. 

Sweeter than the early thrush 
Pipes at day-dawn from the bush. 

Wake once more the liquid strain 
That you poured, like music-rain. 

When, last night, in the sweet weather^ 
You and I were out together. 

Unto whom two notes are given. 

One of earth, and one of heaven. 

Were it not a shameful tale 
That the earth-note should prevail r 

For the sake of those who love us. 

For the sake of God above us. 

Each and all should do their best 
To make music for the rest. 


i74 


So will I no more reprove, 
Though the chiding be in love : 
Uttering harsh rebuke to you, 
That were inharmonious, too. 


THE WHITE-THROATED 
SPARROW 

By A. JVest 

ARK ! ’t is our Northern Night- 
ingale that sings 

In far-ofF, leafy cloisters, dark 
and cool. 

Flinging his flute-notes bounding 
from the skies ! 

Thou wild musician @f the 
mountain-streams. 

Most tuneful minstrel of the forest-choirs. 

Bird of all grace and harmony of soul. 

Unseen, we hail thee for thy blissful voice ! 

Up in yon tremulous mist where morning wakes 
Illimitable shadows from their dark abodes. 

Or in this woodland glade tumultuous grown 
With all the murmurous language of the trees. 

No blither presence fills the vocal space. 

The wandering rivulets dancing through the grass, 
The gambols, low or loud, of insect-life. 

The cheerful call of cattle in the vales. 

Sweet natural sounds of the contented hours, — 
All seem less jubilant when thy song begins. 



175 


Deep in the shade we lie and listen long; 

For human converse well may pause, and man 
Learn from such notes fresh hints of praise, 
That upward swelling from thy grateful tribe 
Circles the hills with melodies of joy. 


CAGED BIRD 

Sarah Orne Jewett 

IGH at the window in her cage 
The old canary flits and sings. 
Nor sees across the curtain pass 
The shadow of a swallow’s 
wings. 

A poor deceit and copy, this. 

Of larger lives that mark their span. 
Unreckoning of wider worlds 

Or gifts that Heaven keeps for man. 

She gathers piteous bits and shreds. 

This solitary, mateless thing. 

To patient build again the nest 

So rudely scattered spring by spring ; 

And sings her brief, unlistened songs, 

Her dreams of bird-life wild and free. 

Yet never beats her prison bars 

At sound of song from bush or tree. 



176 


But in my busiest hours I pause, 

Held by a sense of urgent speech, 
Bewildered by that spark-like soul. 

Able my very soul to reach. 

She will be heard; she chirps me loud. 

When I forget those gravest cares. 

Her small provision to supply. 

Clear water or her seedsman’s wares. 

She begs me now for that chief joy 

The round great world is made to grow,— — 
Her wisp of greenness. Hear her chide, 
Because my answering thought is slow ! 

What can my life seem like to her ? 

A dull, unpunctual service mine ; 

Stupid before her eager call. 

Her flitting steps, her insight fine. 

To open wide thy prison door. 

Poor friend, would give thee to thy foes 5 
And yet a plaintive note I hear. 

As if to tell how slowly goes 

The time of thy long prisoning. 

Bird ! does some promise keep thee sane r 
Will there be better days for thee ? 

Will thy soul too know life again ? 

Ah, none of us have more than this : 

If one true friend green leaves can reach 
From out some fairer, wider place. 

And understand our wistful speech. 


177 


BLOOD-ROOT 

By E. S. F. 

HEN ’mid the budding elms the 
bluebird flits, 

As if a bit of sky had taken 
wings ; 

When cheerily the first brave 
robin sings, 

While timid April smiles and 
weeps by fits, 

Then dainty Blood-Root dons her pale-green wrap, 
And ventures forth in some warm, sheltered nook. 
To sit and listen to the gurgling brook. 

And rouse herself from her long winter nap. 

Give her a little while to muse and dream. 

And she will throw her leafy cloak aside. 

And stand in shining raiment, like a bride 
Waiting her lord ; whiter than snow will seem 
Her spotless robe, the moss-grown rocks beside. 
And bright as morn her golden crown will gleam. 

THE PASSING OF MARCH 

By Robert Burns Wilson 

T he braggart March stood in the season’s 
door 

With his broad shoulders blocking up 
the way. 

Shaking the snow-flakes from the cloak he wore, 
And from the fringes of his kirtle gray. 



178 


Near by him April stood with tearful face, 

With violets in her hands, and in her hair 
Pale, wild anemones ; the fragrant lace 

Half-parted from her breast, which seemed like 
fair, 

Dawn-tinted mountain snow, smooth-drifted there. 

She on the blusterer’s arm laid one white hand. 

But he would none of her soft blandishment. 

Yet did she plead with tears none might withstand, 
For even the fiercest hearts at last relent. 

And he, at last, in ruffian tenderness. 

With one swift, crushing kiss her lips did greet, 
Ah, poor starved heart ! — for that one rude caress, 
She cast her violets underneath his feet. 

WHEN IN THE NIGHT WE WAKE 
AND HEAR THE RAIN 

By Robert Burns W ilson 

HEN in the night we wake and 
hear the rain 

Like myriad merry footfalls on 
the grass. 

And, on the roof, the friendly, 
threatening crash 
Of sweeping, cloud-sped messen- 
gers, that pass 
Far through the clamoring night ; or loudly dash 
Against the rattling windows ; storming, still 
In swift recurrence, each dim-streaming pane^ 



179 ' 


Insistent that the dreamer wake, within, 

And dancing in the darkness on the sill : 

How is it, then, with us — amidst the din. 

Recalled from Sleep’s dim, vision-swept do- 
main — 

When in the night we wake and hear the rain ? 

When in the night we wake and hear the rain. 

Like mellow music, comforting the earth ; 

A muffled, half-elusive serenade. 

Too softly sung for grief, too grave for mirth; 
Such as night-wandering fairy minstrels made 
In fabled, happier days ; while far in space 
The serious thunder rolls a deep refrain. 

Jarring the forest, wherein Silence makes 
Amidst the stillness her lone dwelling-place ; 

Then in the soul’s sad consciousness awakes 

Some nameless chord, touched by that haunt- 
ing strain. 

When in the night we wake and hear the rain. 

When in the night we wake and hear the rain, 

And from blown casements see the lightning sweep 
The ocean’s breadth with instantaneous fire, 
Dimpling the lingering curve of waves that creep 
In steady tumult — waves that never tire 
For vexing, night and day, the glistening rocks. 
Firm-fixed in their immovable disdain 
Against the sea’s alternate rage and play : 

Comes there not something on the wind which 
mocks 

The feeble thoughts, the foolish avms that sway 


i8o 


Our souls with hopes of unenduring gain — 
When in the night we wake and hear the 
rain ? 

When in the night we wake and hear the rain 
Which on the white bloom of the orchard falls, 
And on the young, green wheat-blades, nodding 
now. 

And on the half-turned field, where thought re- 
calls 

How in the furrow stands the rusting plow, 

Then fancy pictures what the day will see — 

The ducklings paddling in the puddled lane, 

Sheep grazing slowly up the emerald slope, 

Clear bird-notes ringing, and the droning bee 
Among the lilacs’ bloom — enchanting hope — 
How fair the fading dreams we entertain. 
When in the night we wake and hear the rain ! 

When in the night we wake and hear the rain 
Which falls on Summer’s ashes, when the leaves 
Are few and fading, and the fields forlorn 
No more remember their long-gathered sheaves, 
Nor aught of all the gladness they have worn ; 
When melancholy veils the misty hills 
Where sombre Autumn’s latest glories wane; 

Then goes the soul forth where the sad year lays 
On Summer’s grave her withered gifts, and fills 
Her urn with broken memories of sweet days — 
Dear days which, being vanished, yet remain. 
When in the night we wake and hear the 
rain. 


When in the night we wake not with the rain — 
When Silence, like a watchful shade, will keep 
Too well her vigil by the lonely bed 
In which at last we rest in quiet sleep ; 

While from the sod the melted snows be shed. 

And Spring’s green grass, with Summer’s ripening 
sun. 

Grows brown and matted like a lion’s mane. 

How will it be with us ? No more to care 
Along the journeying wind’s wild path to run 
When Nature’s voice shall call, no more to share 
Love’s madness — no regret — no longings 
vain — 

When in the night we wake not with the rain. 


DOVER BEACH 

Matthew Arnold 

HE sea is calm to-night. 

The tide is full, the moon lies 
fair 

Upon the straits; — on the 
French coast the light 
Gleams and is gone ; the cliffs of 
England stand. 

Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. 
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air ! 

Only, from the long line of spray 

Where the sea meets the moon-blanch’d land. 

Listen 1 you hear the grating roar 



i 82 


Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, 
At their return, up the high strand. 

Begin, and cease, and then again begin. 

With tremulous cadence slow, and bring 
The eternal note of sadness in. 

Sophocles long ago 

Heard it on the iTgaean, and it brought 
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow 
Of human misery; we 
Find also in the sound a thought. 

Hearing it by this distant northern sea. 

The sea of faith 

Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s 
shore 

Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl’d. 

But now I only hear 

Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar. 

Retreating, to the breath 

Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear 
And naked shingles of the world. 

Ah, love, let us be true 

To one another ! for the world, which seems 
To lie before us like a land of dreams. 

So various, so beautiful, so new. 

Hath really neither Joy, nor love, nor light. 

Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain ; 

And we are here as on a darkling plain 

Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, 

Where ignorant armies clash by night. 


POOR MATTHIAS 



Bv Matthew Arnold 

lOOR Matthias ! — Found him 
lying 

Fall’n beneath his perch and 
dying ? 

Found him stiff, you say, though 
warm — 

All convulsed his little form I 
Poor canary ! many a year 
Well he knew his mistress dear ; 

Now in vain you call his name. 

Vainly raise his rigid frame, 

Vainly warm him in your breast. 

Vainly kiss his golden crest. 

Smooth his ruffled plumage fine, 

Touch his trembling beak with wine. 

One more gasp — it is the end ! 

Dead and mute our tiny friend ! 

— Songster thou of many a year. 

Now thy mistress brings thee here. 

Says, it fits that I rehearse, 

Tribute due to thee, a verse, 

Mead for daily song of yore 
Silent now for evermore. 


Poor Matthias ! Wouldst thou have 
More than pity ? claim’st a stave ? 

— Friends more near us than a bird 
We dismiss’d without a word. 


184 


Rover, with the good brown head, 
Great Atossa, they are dead; 

Dead, and neither prose nor rhyme 
Tells the praises of their prime. 

Thou didst know them old and grey. 
Know them in their sad decay. 

Thou hast seen Atossa sage 
Sit for hours beside thy cage ; 

Thou wouldst chirp, thou foolish bird, 
Flutter, chirp ^ — she never stirr’d ! 
What were now these toys to her ? 
Down she sank amid her fur ; 

Eyed thee with a soul resign’d — 

And thou deemedst cats were kind ! 

• — Cruel, but composed and bland. 
Dumb, inscrutable and grand. 

So Tiberius might have sat. 

Had Tiberius been a cat. 


Rover died — Atossa too. 

Less than they to us are you ! 

Nearer human were their powers, 

Closer knit their life with ours. 

Hands had stroked them, which are cold. 
Now for years, in churchyard mould ; 
Comrades of our past were they. 

Of that unreturning day. 

Changed and aging, they and we 
Dwelt, it seem’d, in sympathy. 

Alway from their presence broke 
Somewhat which remembrance woke 


i85 


Of the loved, the lost, the young — 
Yet they died, and died unsung. 

Geist came next, our little friend ; 
Geist had verse to mourn his end. 
Yes, but that enforcement strong 
Which compell’d for Geist a song — 
All that gay courageous cheer, 

All that human pathos dear; 

Soul-fed eyes with suffering worn, 
Pain heroically borne. 

Faithful love in depth divine — 

Poor Matthias, were they thine ? 

Max and Kaiser we to-day 
Greet upon the lawn at play ; 

Max a dachshund without blot — 
Kaiser should be, but is not. 

Max, with shining yellow coat. 
Prinking ears and dewlap throat — 
Kaiser, with his collie face. 

Penitent for want of race. 

— Which may be the first to die. 
Vain to augur, they or I ! 

But, as age comes on, I know. 

Poet’s fire gets faint and low ; 

If so be that travel they 
First the inevitable way, 

Much I doubt if they shall have 
Dirge from me to crown their grave. 

Yet, poor bird, thy tiny corse 
Moves me, somehow, to remorse ; 


Something haunts my conscience, brings 
Sad, compunctious visitings. 

Other favourites, dwelling here. 

Open lived to us, and near; 

Well we knew when they were glad, 
Plain we saw if they were sad. 

Joy'd with them when they were gay. 
Soothed them in their last decay ; 
Sympathy could feel and show 
Both in weal of theirs and woe. 

Birds, companions more unknown, 
Live beside us, but alone ; 

Finding not, do all they can. 

Passage from their souls to man. 
Kindness we bestow, and praise. 

Laud their plumage, greet their lays i 
Still, beneath their feather’d breast. 

Stirs a history unexpress’d. 

Wishes there, and feelings strong, 
Incommunicably throng; 

What they want, we cannot guess. 

Fail to track their deep distress — 

Dull look on when death is nigh. 

Note no change, and let them die. 

Poor Matthias ! couldst thou speakj 
What a tale of thy last week ! 

Every morning did we pay 
Stupid salutations gay. 

Suited well to health, but how 
Mocking, how incongruous now ! 


i87 


Cake we offer’d, sugar, seed. 

Never doubtful of thy need ; 

Praised, perhaps, thy courteous eye, 
Praised thy golden livery. 

Gravely thou the while, poor dear ! 
Sat’st upon thy perch to hear. 

Fixing with a mute regard 
Us, thy human keepers hard. 
Troubling, with our chatter vain, 
Ebb of life, and mortal pain — 

Us, unable to divine 

Our companion’s dying sign. 

Or o’erpass the severing sea 
Set betwixt ourselves and thee. 

Till the sand thy feathers smirch 
Fallen dying off thy perch ! 

Was it, as the Grecian sings. 
Birds were born the first of things. 
Before the sun, before the wind. 
Before the gods, before mankind. 
Airy, ante-mundane throng — 
Witness their unworldly song ! 

Proof they give, too, primal powers, 
Of a prescience more than ours — 
Teach us, while they come and go, 
When to sail, and when to sow. 
Cuckoo calling from the hill. 
Swallow skimming by the mill. 
Swallows trooping in the sedge. 
Starlings swirling from the hedge, 


i88 


Mark the seasons, map our year, 
As they show and disappear. 

But, with all this travail sage 
Brought from that anterior age. 
Goes an unreversed decree 
Whereby strange are they and we, 
Making want of theirs, and plan, 
Indiscernible by man. 

No, away with tales like these 
StoPn from Aristophanes ! 

Does it, if we miss your mind. 
Prove us so remote in kind ? 

Birds ! we but repeat on you 
What amongst ourselves we do. 
Somewhat more or somewhat less, 
’Tis the same unskilfulness. 

What you feel, escapes our ken — 
Know we more our fellow men ? 
Human suffering at our side. 

Ah, like yours is undescried ! 
Human longings, human fears. 
Miss our eyes and miss our ears. 
Little helping, wounding much. 
Dull of heart, and hard of touch. 
Brother man’s despairing sign 
Who may trust us to divine ? 

Who assure us, sundering powers 
Stand not ’twixt his soul and ours ^ 

Poor Matthias ! See, thy end 
What a lesson doth it lend ! 


For that lesson thou shalt have, 

Dead canary bird, a stave ! 

Telling how, one stormy day. 

Stress of gale and showers of spray 
Drove my daughter small and me 
Inland from the rocks and sea. 

Driv’n inshore, we follow down 
Ancient streets of Hastings town — 
Slowly thread them — when behold, 
French canary-merchant old 
Shepherding his flock of gold 
In a low dim-lighted pen 
Scann’d of tramps and fishermen ! 

There a bird, high-colored, fat, 

Proud of port, though something squat — 
Pursy, play’d-out Philistine — 

Dazzled Nelly’s youthful eyne. 

But, far in, obscure, there stirr’d 
On his perch a sprightlier bird. 
Courteous-eyed, erect and slim ; 

And I whisper’d : Fix on him ! ” 

Home we brought him, young and fair, 
Songs to thrill in Surrey air. 

Here Matthias sang his fill. 

Saw the cedars of Pains Hill ; 

Here he pour’d his little soul. 

Heard the murmur of the Mole. 

Eight in number now the years 
He hath pleased our eyes and ears ; 

Other favorites he hath known 
Go, and now himself is gone. 


igo 


— Fare thee well, companion dear ! 
Fare for ever well, nor fear. 

Tiny though thou art, to stray 
Down the uncompanion’d way ! 

We without thee, little friend. 
Many years have not to spend ; 
What are left, will hardly be 
Better than we spent with thee. 


THE DEPARTURE OF THE 
CUCKOO 

(From “Thyrsis”) 

Matthew Arnold 

O, some tempestuous morn in 
early June, 

When the year’s primal burst 
of bloom is o’er. 

Before the roses and the longest 
day — 

When garden-walks and all 
the' grassy floor 
With blossoms red and white of fallen May 
And chestnut-flowers are strewn — 

So have I heard the cuckoo’s parting cry, 

From the wet field, through the vext garden- 
trees, 

Come with the volleying rain and tossing breeze : 
The bloom is gone^ and with the bloom go I ! 



PHILOMELA 


Matthew Arnold 

ARK ! ah, the nightingale — 
The tawny-throated ! 

Hark, from that moonlit cedar 
what a burst ! 

What triumph ! hark ! — what 
pain ! 

O wanderer from a Grecian shore. 

Still, after many years, in distant lands, 

Still nourishing in thy bewildered brain 
That wild,- unquench’d, deep-sunken, old-world 
pain — 

Say, will it never heal ? 

And can this fragrant lawn. 

With its cool trees, and night. 

And the sweet, tranquil Thames, 

And moonshine, and the dew. 

To thy rack’d heart and brain 
Afford no balm ? 

Dost thou to-night behold. 

Here, through the moonlight on this English grass. 
The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild ? 

Dost thou again peruse 

With hot cheeks and seared eyes 

The too clear web, and thy dumb sister’s shame ! 

Dost thou once more essay 


By 



192 


Thy flight, and feel come over thee, 

Poor fugitive, the feathery change 
Once more, and once more make resound. 

With love and hate, triumph and agony. 

Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian vale ? 

Listen, Eugenia — 

How thick the bursts come crowding through the 
leaves ! 

Again — thou hearest ? 

Eternal passion ! 

Eternal pain ! 


TRAILING ARBUTUS 

By Henry Abbey 

N spring, when branches of 
woodbine 

Hung leafless over the rocks. 
And the fleecy snow in the 
hollows 

Lay in unshepherded flocks. 

By the road where the dead leaves rustled. 

Or damply matted the ground. 

While over me lifted the robin 
His honeyed passion of sound, 

I saw the trailing arbutus 
Blooming in modesty sweet. 

And gathered store of its richness 
Offered and spread at my feet. 




193 


It grew under leaves, as if seeking 
No hint of itself to disclose, 

And out of its pink-white petals 
A delicate perfume rose. 

As faint as the fond remembrance 
Of joy that was only dreamed ; 

And like a divine suggestion 

The scent of the flower seemed. 

I had sought for love on the highway. 

For love unselfish and pure. 

And had found it in good deeds blooming, 
Though often in haunts obscure. 

Often in leaves by the wayside. 

But touched with a heavenly glow. 

And with self-sacrifice fragrant. 

The flowers of great love grow. 

O lovely and lowly arbutus ! 

As year unto year succeeds. 

Be thou the laurel and emblem 
Of noble, unselfish deeds. 


WINTER DAYS 


By Henry Abbey 

N OW comes the graybeard of the north'. 

The forests bare their rugged breasts 
To every wind that wanders forth. 

And, in their arms, the lonely nests 
That housed the birdlings months ago 
Are egged with flakes of drifted snowo 


194 


No more the robin pipes his lay 

To greet the flushed advance of morn; 
He sings in valleys far away ; 

His heart is with the south to-day ; 

He cannot shrill among the corn : 

For all the hay and corn are down 
And garnered ; and the withered leaf, 
Against the branches bare and brown, 
Rattles ; and all the days are brief. 

An icy hand is on the land ; 

The cloudy sky is sad and gray ; 

But through the misty sorrow streams 
A heavenly and golden ray. 

And on the brook that cuts the plain 
A diamond wonder is aglow. 

Fairer than that which, long ago, 

De Rohan staked a name to gain. 


ROBIN’S COME! 

By William W, Caldwell 

F rom the elm-tree’s topmost bough. 
Hark! the Robin’s early song! 
Telling one and all that now 
Merry spring-time hastes along; 
Welcome tidings dost thou bring. 

Little harbinger of spring, 

Robin’s come ! 


195 


Of the winter we are weary, 

Weary of the frost and snow, 
Longing for the sunshine cheery. 

And the brooklet’s gurgling flow ; 
Gladly then we hear thee sing 
The reveille of spring, 

Robin’s come ! 

Ring it out o’er hill and plain. 

Through the garden’s lonely bowers. 
Till the green leaves dance again. 

Till the air is sweet with flowers ! 
Wake the cowslips by the rill. 

Wake the yellow daffodil ! 

Robin’s come ! 

Then as thou wert wont of yore. 

Build thy nest and rear thy young. 
Close beside our cottage door. 

In the woodbine leaves among ; 

Hurt or harm thou need’st not fear. 
Nothing rude shall venture near. 

Robin’s come ! 

Swinging still o’er yonder lane 
Robin answers merrily ; 

Ravished by the sweet refrain, 

Alice claps her hands in glee. 

Calling from the open door. 

With her soft voice, o’er and o’er, 
Robin’s come ! 


196 


TO A SEA-BIRD 

By Francis Bret Harte 

AUNTERING hither on listless 
wings, 

Careless vagabond of the sea, 
Little thou heedest the surf that 
sings. 

The bar that thunders, the shale 
that rings, — 

Give me to keep thy company. 

Little thou hast, old friend, that’s new ; 

Storms and wrecks are old things to thee; 

Sick am I of these changes too ; 

Little to care for, little to rue, — 

I on the shore, and thou on the sea. 

All of thy wanderings, far and near. 

Bring thee at last to shore and me ; 

All of my journeyings end them here. 

This our tether must be our cheer, — 

I on the shore, and thou on the sea. 

Lazily rocking on ocean’s breast. 

Something in common, old friend, have we ; 

Thou on the shingle seekest thy nest, 

I to the waters look for rest, — 

I on the shore, and thou on the sea. 



197 


GRIZZLY 

Francis Fret Harte 

OWARD, — of heroic size, 

In whose lazy muscles lies 
Strength we fear and yet despise; 
Savage, — whose relentless tusks 
Are content with acorn husks ; 
Robber, — whose exploits ne’er 
soared 

O’er the bee’s or squirrel’s hoard ; 

Whiskered chin, and feeble nose. 

Claws of steel on baby toes, — 

Here, in solitude and shade, 

Shambling, shuffling plantigrade, 

Be thy courses undismayed ! 

Here, where Nature makes thy bed, 

Let thy rude, half-human tread 
Point to hidden Indian springs. 

Lost in ferns and fragrant grasses. 

Hovered o’er by timid wings. 

Where the wood-duck lightly passes. 

Where the wild bee holds her sweets, — - 
Epicurean retreats. 

Fit for thee, and better than 
Fearful spoils of dangerous man. 

In thy fat-jowled deviltry 
Friar Tuck shall live in thee; 




198 


Thou mayest levy tithe and dole ; 

Thou shalt spread the woodland cheer, 
From the pilgrim taking toll; 

Match thy cunning with his fear ; 

Eat, and drink, and have thy fill; 

Yet remain an outlaw still ! 


NATURE 

By Jones V ery 

HE bubbling brook doth leap 
when I come by. 

Because my feet find measure 
with its call ; 

The birds know when the friend 
they love is nigh. 

For I am known to them, both 
great and small. 

The flower that on the lonely hillside grows 
Expects me there when Spring its bloom has given; 
And many a tree and bush my wandering knows, 
And e’en the clouds and silent stars of heaven ; 

For he who with his Maker walks aright. 

Shall be their lord as Adam was before ; 

His ear shall catch each sound with new delight. 
Each object wear the dress that then it wore ; 

And he, as when erect in soul he stood. 

Hear from his Father’s lips that all is good. 




199 ' 


SEEKING THE MAY-FLOWER 

By Edmund Clarence Stedman 

HE sweetest sound our whole 
year round — 

’Tis the first robin of the 
spring ! 

The song of the full orchard 
choir 

Is not so fine a thing. 

Glad sights are common : Nature draws 
Her random pictures through the year, 

But oft her music bids us long 
Remember those most dear. 

To me, when in the sudden- spring 
I hear the earliest robin’s lay, 

With the first trill there comes again 
One picture of the May. 

The veil is parted wide, and lo, 

A moment, though my eyelids close. 

Once more I see that wooded hill 
Where the arbutus grows. 

I see the village dryad kneel. 

Trailing her slender fingers through 
The knotted tendrils, as she lifts 
Their pink, pale flowers to view. 




200 


Once more I dare to stoop beside 
The dove-eyed beauty of my choice, 

And long to touch her careless hair, 

And think how dear her voice. 

My eager, wandering hands assist 
With fragrant blooms her lap to fill. 

And half by chance they meet her own. 

Half by our young hearts’ will. 

Till, at the last, those blossoms won, — 

Like her, so pure, so sweet, so shy, — 

Upon the gray and lichened rocks 
Close at her feet I lie. 

Fresh blows the breeze through hemlock trees. 
The fields are edged with green below ; 

And naught but youth and hope and love 
We know or care to know! 

Hark I from the moss-clung apple-bough. 
Beyond the tumbled wall, there broke 

That gurgling music of the May, — 

’Twas the first robin spoke! 

I heard it, ay, and heard it not, — 

For little then my glad heart wist 

What toil and time should come to pass, 

And what delight be missed ; 

Nor thought thereafter, year by year. 

Hearing that fresh yet olden song. 

To yearn for unreturning joys 
That with its joy belong. 


201 


WHAT THE WINDS BRING 

By Edmund Clarence Stedman 

HIGH is the wind that brings the 
cold ? 

The north-wind, Freddy, and 
all the snow \ 

And the sheep will scamper into 
the fold 

When the north begins to blow. 

Which is the wind that brings the heat ? 

The south-wind, Katy ; and corn will grow. 
And peaches redden for you to eat. 

When the south begins to blow. 

Which is the wind that brings the rain ? 

The east-wind, Arty ; and farmers know 
That cows come shivering up the lane 
When the east begins to blow. 

Which is the wind that brings the flowers ? 

The west-wind, Bessy ; and soft and low 
The birdies sing in the summer hours 
When the west begins to blow. 

UNDER THE LEAVES 

By Albert Eaighton 

O FT have I walked these woodland paths. 
Without the blessed foreknowing 
That underneath the withered leaves 
The fairest buds were growing. 



202 


To-day the south-wind sweeps away 
The types of autumn’s splendor, 

And shows the sweet arbutus flowers, — 
Spring’s children, pure and tender. 

O prophet-flowers ! — with lips of bloom, 
Outvying in your beauty 
The pearly tints of ocean shells, — 

Ye teach me faith and duty ! 

Walk life’s dark ways, ye seem to say. 
With love’s divine foreknowing. 

That where man sees but withered leaves, 
God sees sweet flowers growing. 


NANTASKET 

By Mary Clemmer Ames 

(From ‘‘ Nantasket ”) 

AIR is thy face, Nantasket, 

And fair thy curving shores ; 
The peering spires of villages ; 

The boatman’s dipping oars ; 
The lonely ledge of Minot, 
Where the watchman tends 
his light. 

And sets its perilous beacon — 

A star in the stormiest night. 

Along thy vast sea highways 

The great ships slide from sight, 

And flocks of winged phantoms 
Flit by like birds in flight. 



203 


Over the toppling sea-wall 
The homebound dories float ; 

I see the patient fisherman 
Bend in his anchored boat. 

I am alone with Nature, 

With the soft September day ; 

The lifting hills above me, 

With golden-rod are gay. 

Across the fields of ether 
Flit butterflies at play ; 

And cones of garnet sumach 
Glow down the country way. 

The autumn dandelion 

Beside the roadside burns; 

Above the lichened bowlders 
Quiver the plumed ferns. 

The cream-white silk of the milkweed 
Floats from its sea-green pod ; 

From out the mossy rock-seams 
Flashes the golden-rod. 

The woodbine’s scarlet banners 
Flaunt from their towers of stone i 

The wan,‘ wild morning-glory 
Dies by the road alone. 

By the hill-path to the seaside 
Wave myriad azure bells; 

Over the grassy ramparts 
Bend milky immortelles. 


204 


I see the tall reeds shiver 
Beside the salt sea marge ; 

I see the seabird glimmer 
Far out on airy barge. 

The cumulate cry of the cricket 
Pierces the amber noon ; 

Over and through it Ocean 
Chants his pervasive rune. 

Fair is the earth behind me, 

Vast is the sea before; 

Afar in the misty mirage 
Glistens another shore. 

Is it a realm enchanted ? 

It cannot be more fair 

Than this nook of Nature’s kingdom^ 
With its spell of space and air. 

Lo, over the sapphire ocean 
Trembles a bridge of flame, — 

To the burning core of the sunset^ 

To the city too fair to name ; 

Till a ray of its inner glory 
Streams to this lower sea. 

And we see with human vision 
What Heaven itself may be. 


205 


GREEN THINGS GROWING 

By Dinah Mulock Craik 

THE green things growing, the 
green things growing, 

The faint sweet smell of the 
green things growing ! 

I should like to live, whether I 
smile or grieve. 

Just to watch the happy life of 
my green things growing. 

0 the fluttering and the pattering of those green 

things growing ! 

How they talk each to each, when none of us are 
knowing ; 

In the wonderful white of the weird moonlight 
Or the dim dreamy dawn when the cocks are 
crowing. 

1 love, I love them so — my green things growing ! 
And I think that they love me, without false 

showing ; 

For by many a tender touch, they comfort me so 
much. 

With the soft mute comfort of green things growing. 

And in the rich store of their blossoms glowing 
Ten for one I take they’re on me bestowing : 

Oh, I should like to see, if God’s will it may be. 
Many, many a summer of my green things growing ! 



2o6 


But if 1 must be gathered for the angel’s sowing, 
Sleep out of sight awhile, like the green things 
growing. 

Though dust to dust return, I think I’ll scarcely 
mourn. 

If I may change into green things growing. 


CORNFIELDS 

By Mary Hozvitt 

-lEN on the breath of autumn 
breeze. 

From pastures dry and brown. 
Goes floating like an idle thought 
The fair white thistle-down, 

O then what joy to walk at will 
Upon the golden harvest hill \ 

What joy in dreamy ease to lie 
Amid a field new shorn. 

And see all round on sun-lit slopes 
The piled-up stacks of corn ; 

And send the foncy wandering o’er 
All pleasant harvest-fields of yore. 

I feel the day — I see the field. 

The quivering of the leaves. 

And good old Jacob and his house 
Binding the yellow sheaves ; 

And at this very hour I seem 
To be with Joseph in his dream. 



207 


I see the fields of Bethlehem, 

And reapers many a one, 

Bending unto their sickles’ stroke — • 
And Boaz looking on ; 

And Ruth, the Moabite so fair. 
Among the gleaners stooping there. 

Again I see a little child, 

His mother’s sole delight, — 

God’s living gift unto 

The kind, good Shunamite ; 

To mortal pangs I see him yield. 

And the lad b»ar him from the field. 

The sun-bathed quiet of the hills. 
The fields of Galilee, 

That eighteen hundred years ago 
Were full of corn, I see ; 

And the dear Saviour takes his way 
’Mid ripe ears on the Sabbath day. 

O golden fields of bending corn. 

How beautiful they seem ! 

The reaper-folk, the piled-up sheaves 
To me are like a dream. 

The sunshine and the very air 
Seem of old time, and take me there. 


2o8 


AUGUST 


By Celia ^haxter 

lUTTERCUP nodded and said 
good-by, 

Clover and daisy went off 
together, 

But the fragrant water-lilies lie 
Yet moored in the golden 
August weather. 

The swallows chatter about their flight. 

The cricket chirps like a rare good fellow. 

The asters twinkle in clusters bright. 

While the corn grows ripe and the apples mellow. 



WILD GEESE 

By Celia I'haxter 

HE wind blows, the sun shines, 
the birds sing loud. 

The blue, blue sky is flecked 
with fleecy dappled cloud. 
Over earth’s rejoicing fields the 
children dance and sing. 

And the frogs pipe in chorus^ 
‘‘It is spring ! It is spring! ” 

The grass comes, the flower laughs where lately 
lay the snow. 

O’er the breezy hill-top hoarse/y caHs the crow. 




209 


By the flowing river the alder catkins swing, 

And the sweet song-sparrow cries, Spring ! It is 
spring ! ” 

Hark, what a clamor goes winging through the sky ! 

Look, children ! Listen to the sound so wild and 
high ! 

Like a peal of broken bells, — kling, klang, kling, — 

Far and high the wild geese cry, Spring ! It is 
spring ! ” 

Bear the winter off with you, O wild geese dear ! 

Carry all the cold away, far away from here ; 

Chase the snow into the north, O strong of heiart 
and wing. 

While we share the robin’s rapture, crying, Spring ! 
It is spring! ” 


THE SANDPIPER 

By Celia ^haxter 

|CROSS the narrow beach we flit. 
One little sandpiper and I, 

And fast I gather, bit by bit. 

The scattered driftwood 
bleached and dry. 

The wild waves reach their 
hands for it. 

The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, 

As up and down the beach we flit, — 

One little sandpiper and I. 




210 


Above our heads the sullen clouds 
Scud black and swift across the sky j 

Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds 
Stand out the white lighthouses high. 

Almost as far as eye can reach 
I see the close-reefed vessels fly, 

As fast we flit along the beach, — 

One little sandpiper and I. 

I watch him as he skims along. 

Uttering his sweet and mournful cry. 

He starts not at my fitful song. 

Or flash of fluttering drapery. 

He has no thought of any wrong ; 

He scans me with a fearless eye. 

Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong, 
The little sandpiper and 1. 

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night 

When the loosed storm breaks furiously ? 

My driftwood fire will burn so bright ! 

To what warm shelter canst thou fly ? 

I do not fear for thee, though wroth 
The tempest rushes through the sky : 

For are we not God’s children both, 

Thou, little sandpiper and I ? 


21 I 


THE BIRDS OF SCOTLAND 

Hi/gk Macdonald 

THE birds of bonnie Scotland, 
I love them one and all — 
The eagle soaring high in pride, 
The wren so blithe and smalL 
I love the cushat in the wood, 
The heron by the stream, 
The lark that sings the stars 
asleep, 

The merle that wakes their beam. 

0 the birds of dear old Scotland, 

I love them every one — 

The owl that leaves the tower by night. 

The swallow in the sun. 

1 love the raven on the rock. 

The sea-bird on the shore. 

The merry chaffinch in the wood, 

And the curlew on the moor. 

O the birds of bonnie Scotland, 

How lovely are they all ! 

The ousel by the forest spring 
Or lonely waterfall ! 

The thrush that from the leafless bough 
Delights the infant year. 

The redbreast wailing sad and lone, 

When leaves are falling sear. 




212 


O for the time when first I roamed 
The woodland and the field, 

A silent sharer in the joy 

Each summer minstrel pealed. 

Their nests I knew them every one — 

In bank, or bush, or tree ; 

Familiar as a voice of home. 

Their every tone of glee. 

They tell of birds in other climes 
In richest plumage gay. 

With gorgeous tints that far outshine 
An eastern king’s array. 

Strangers to song ! more dear to me 
The linnet, modest gray. 

That pipes among the yellow broom 
His wild, heart-witching lay. 

More dear than all their shining hues. 

The wells of glee that lie 
In throstle’s matchless mottled breast 
Or merle’s of ebon dye. 

And though a lordling’s wealth were mine, 
In some far sunny spot. 

My heart could never own a home 
Where minstrel birds were not. 

Sweet wilding birds of Scotland, 

I loved ye when a boy. 

And to my soul your names are linked 
With dreams of vanished joy. 

And I could wish, when death’s cold hand 


213 


Has stilled this heart of mine, 
That o’er my last low bed of earth 
Might swell your notes divine. 


TO AN ORIOLE 

By Edgar Fawcett 

OW falls it, oriole, thou hast 
come to fly 

In tropic splendor through our 
Northern sky ? 

At some glad moment was it 
nature’s choice 

To dower a scrap of sunset with 
a voice ? 

Or did some orange tulip, flaked with black. 

In some forgotten garden, ages back. 

Yearning toward Heaven until its wish was heard, 
Desire unspeakably to be a bird ? 


A TOAD 

By Edgar Fawcett 

B lue dusk, that brings the dewy hours. 
Brings thee, of graceless form in sooth, 
Dark stumbler at the roots of flowers. 
Flaccid, inert, uncouth. 



214 


Right ill can human wonder guess 
Thy meaning or thy mission here, 
Gray lump of mottled clamminess, 
With that preposterous leer ! 

But when I meet thy dull bulk where 
Luxurious roses bend and burn. 

Or some slim lily lifts to air 
Its frail and fragrant urn. 

Of these, among the garden-ways. 

So grim a watcher dost thou seem, 
That I, with meditative gaze. 

Look down on thee and dream 

Of thick-lipped slaves, with ebon skin. 
That squat in hideous dumb repose. 
And guard the drowsy ladies in 
Their still seraglios ! 


A WHITE CAMELLIA 

By Edgar Fawcett 

I MPERIAL bloom, whose every curve we see 
So glacial a symmetry control. 

Looking, in your pale odorless apathy, 

Like the one earthly flower that has no soul, 

With all sweet radiance bathed in chill eclipse. 

Pure shape of colorless majesty, you seem 
The rose that silence first laid on her lips. 

Far back among the shadowy days of dream ! 


215 


By such inviolate calmness you are girt, 

I doubt, while wondering at the spell it weaves. 

If even decay’s dark hand shall dare to hurt 
The marble immobility of your leaves ! 

For never sunbeam yet had power to melt 
This virginal coldness, absolute as though 

Diana’s awful chastity still dwelt 

Regenerate amid your blossoming snow. 

And while my silent reverie deeply notes 
What arctic torpor in your bosom lies, 

A wandering thought across my spirit floats. 

Like a new bird along familiar skies. 

White ghost, in centuries past, has dread mischance 
Thus ruined your vivid warmth, your fragrant 
breath. 

While making you, by merciless ordinance. 

The first of living flowers that gazed on death ? 


THE HUMMING-BIRD 

By John Banister ^ahb 

A FLASH of harmless lightning, 

A mist of rainbow dyes. 

The burnished sunbeams brightening, 
From flower to flower he flies : 

While wakes the nodding blossom, 

But just too late to see 
What lip hath touched her bosom 
And drained her nectary. 


2i6 


THE WATER-LILY 

By John Banister 

HENCE, O fragrant form of 
light. 

Hast thou drifted through the 
night. 

Swanlike, to a leafy nest, 

On the restless waves, at 
rest ? 

Art thou from the snowy zone 
Of a mountain-summit blown, 

Or the blossom of a dream. 

Fashioned in the foamy stream ? 

Nay ; methinks the maiden moon. 

When the daylight came too soon. 

Fleeting from her bath to hide. 

Left her garment in the tide. 



THE SONG-SPARROW* 

Bj Henry van Dyke 

T here is a bird I know so well, 

It seems as if he must have sung 
Beside my crib when I was young ; 
Before I knew the way to spell 

The name of even the smallest bird. 

His gentle-joyful song I heard. 

* From “ The Builders and other Poems” by Henry van Dyke. Copy 
Hght, rSgj, by Charles Scribner's So7is. 


217 


Now see if you can tell, my dear, 

What bird it is that, every year. 

Sings Sweet — sweet — sweet — very merry cheer, 

He comes in March, when winds are strong. 

And snow returns to hide the earth ; 

But still he warms his heart with mirth. 

And waits for May. He lingers long 
While flowers fade ; and every day 
Repeats his small, contented lay ; 

As if to say, we need not fear 

The season’s change, if love is here 

With Sweet — sweet — sweet — very merry cheer, ^ 

He does not wear a Joseph’s-coat 
Of many colors, smart and gay ; 

His suit is Quaker brown and gray. 

With darker patches at his throat. 

And yet of all the well-dressed throng 
Not one can sing so brave a song. 

It makes the pride of looks appear 

A vain and foolish thing, to hear 

His Sweet — sweet — sweet — very merry cheer J 

A lofty place he does not love. 

But sits by choice, and well at ease, 

In hedges, and in little trees 
That stretch their slender arms above 
The meadow-brook ; and there he sings 
Till all the field with pleasure rings ; 

And so he tells in every ear. 

That lowly homes to heaven are near 
In Sweet — sweet — sweet — very merry cheer, 


2i8 


I like the tune, I like the words , 

They seem so true, so free from art, 

So friendly, and so full of heart. 

That if but one of all the birds 

Could be my comrade everywhere, 

My little brother of the air. 

This is the one Td choose, my dear. 

Because he’d bless me, every year. 

With Sweet — sweet — sweet — very merry cheer, 


AN ANGLER’S WISH^ 

By Henry van Dyke 

I 

HEN tulips bloom in Union 
Square, 

And timid breaths of vernal air 
Go wandering down the dusty 
town. 

Like children lost in Vanity 
Fair ; 

When every long, unlovely row 
Of westward houses stands aglow. 

And leads the eyes toward sunset skies 
Beyond the hills where green trees grow ; 

Then weary seems the street parade, 

And weary books, and weary trade : 

I’m only wishing to go a-fishing ; 

For this the month of May was made. 



* Fram “ TJu Builders etTid other Poems,*' by Henry van Dyke, Copy 
right, i8q7, by Charles Scribner's Sons„ 


219 


II 

I guess the pussy-willows now 
Are creeping out on every bough 
Along the brook ; and robins look 
For early worms behind the plough. 

The thistle-birds have changed their dun, 

For yellow coats, to match the sun; 

And in the same array of flame 
The Dandelion Show ’s begun. 

The flocks of young anemones 
Are dancing round the budding trees : 

Who can help wishing to go a-fishing 
In days as full of joy as these ? 

III 

I think the meadow-lark’s clear sound 
Leaks upward slowly from the ground, 

While on the wing the blue-birds ring 
Their wedding-bells to woods around. 

The flirting chewink calls his dear 
Behind the bush ; and very near. 

Where water flows, where green grass grows, 
Song-sparrows gently sing, Good cheer.” 

And, best of all, through twilight’s calm 
The hermit-thrush repeats his psalm. 

How much I’m wishing to go a-fishing 
In days so sweet with music’s balm ! 


220 


IV 

’T is not a proud desire of mine ; 

I ask for nothing superfine ; 

No heavy weight, no salmon great, 

To break the record — or my line : 

Only an idle little stream. 

Whose amber waters softly gleam. 

Where I may wade, through woodland shade, 
And cast the fly, and loaf, and dream : 

Only a trout or two, to dart 
From foaming pools, and try my art : 

No more Tm wishing — old-fashioned fishing. 
And just a day on Nature’s heart. 


DAWN 

By Richard Watson Gilder 

HE night was dark, though some- 
times a faint star 
A little while a little space made 
bright. 

Dark was the night and like an 
iron bar 

Lay heavy on the land — till 
o’er the sea 
Slowly, within the East, there grew a light 
Which half was starlight, and half seemed to be 
The herald of a greater. The pale white 
Turned slowly to pale rose, and up the height 




221 


Of heaven slowly climbed. The gray sea grew 
Rose-colored like the sky. A white gull flew 
Straight toward the utmost boundary of the East 
Where slowly the rose gathered and increased. 
There was light now, where all was black before. 
It was as on the opening of a door 
By one who in his hand a lamp doth hold, 

(Its flame being hidden by the garment’s fold) — 
The still air moves, the wide room is less dim. 

More bright the East became, the ocean 
turned 

Dark and more dark against the brightening sky — 
Sharper against the sky the long sea line. 

The hollows of the breakers on the shore 
Were green like leaves whereon’ no sun doth shine, 
Though sunlight make the outer branches hoar. 
From rose to red the level heaven burned ; 

Then sudden, as if a sword fell from on high, 

A blade of gold flashed on the ocean’s rim. 


THE VOICE OF THE PINE 

By Richard Watson Gilder 

’ 1 ■ ^IS night upon the lake. Our bed of 
I boughs 

JL Is built where, high above, the pine-tree 
soughs. 

’Tis still — and yet what woody noises loom 
Against the background of the silent gloom ! 

One well might hear the opening of a flower 
If day were hushed as this. A mimic shower 


222 


Just shaken from a branch, how large it sounded, 
As ’gainst our canvas roof its three drops bounded ! 
Across the rumpling waves the hoot-owl’s bark 
Tolls forth the midnight hour upon the dark. 

What mellow booming from hills doth come ? — 
The mountain quarry strikes its mighty drum. 

Long had we lain beside our pine-wood fire, 
From things of sport our talk had risen higher. 
How frank and intimate the words of men 
When tented lonely in some forest glen ! 

No dallying now with masks, from whence emerges 
Scarce one true feature forth. The night-wind 
urges 

To straight and sirnple speech. So we had thought 
Aloud ; no secrets but to light were brought. 

The hid and spiritual hopes, the wild, 

Unreasoned longings that, from child to child. 
Mortals still cherish (though with modern shame) — 
To these, and things like these, we gave a name ; 
And as we talked, the intense and resinous fire 
Lit up the towering boles, till nigh and nigher 
They gather round, a ghostly company. 

Like beasts who seek to know what men may be. 

Then to our hemlock beds, but not to sleep — 
For listening to the stealthy steps that creep 
About the tent, or falling branch, but most 
A noise was like the rustling of a host. 

Or like the sea that breaks upon the shore — 

It was the pine-tree’s murmur. More and more 
It took a human sound. These words I felt 
^ato the skyey darkness float and melt : 


223 


Heardst thou these wanderers reasoning of a 
time 

When men more near the Eternal One shall climb ? 
How like the new-born child, who cannot tell 
A mother’s arm that wraps it warm and well ! 
Leaves of His rose; drops in His sea that flow, — 
Are they, alas, so blind they may not know 
Here, in this breathing world of joy and fear. 

They can no nearer get to God than here.” 

A SONG OF EARLY AUTUMN 

By Richard IVatson Gilder 

HEN late in summer the streams 
run yellow. 

Burst the bridges and spread 
into bays ; 

When berries are black and 
peaches are mellow. 

And hills are hidden by rainy 
haze ; 

When the goldenrod is golden still. 

But the heart of the sunflower is darker and 
sadder ; 

When the corn is in stacks on the slope of the hill. 
And slides o’er the path the striped adder. 

When butterflies flutter from clover to thicket. 

Or wave their wings on the drooping leaf ; 
When the breeze comes shrill with the call of the 
cricket. 

Grasshopper’s rasp, and rustle of sheaf. 



224 


When high in the field the fern-leaves w^rinkle, 

And brown is the grass where the mowers have 
mown ; 

When low in the meadow the cow-bells tinkle, 
And small brooks crinkle o’er stock and stone. 

When heavy and hollow the robin’s whistle 
And shadows are deep in the heat of noon ; 

When the air is white with the down o’ the thistle. 
And the sky is red with the harvest moon ; 

Oh then be chary, young Robert and Mary, 

No time let slip, not a moment wait ! 

If the fiddle would play it must stop its tuning, 
And they who would wed must be done 
with their mooning ; 

Let the churn rattle, see well to the cattle. 

And pile the wood by the barn-yard gate ! 


-GREAT NATURE IS AN ARMY 

GAY ” 

By Richard Watson Gilder 

G reat nature is an army gay. 
Resistless marching on its way ; 

I hear the bugles clear and sweet, 

I hear the tread of million feet. 

Across the plain I see it pour; 

It tramples down the waving grass ; 

Within the echoing mountain-pass 
I hear a thousand cannon roar. 


225 


It swarms within my garden gate ; 

My deepest well it drinketh dry. 

It doth not rest ; it doth not wait ; 

By night and day it sweepeth by ; 

Ceaseless it marches by my door ; 

It heeds me not, though I implore. 

I know not whence it comes, nor where 
It goes. For me it doth not care — - 
Whether I starve, or eat, or sleep, 

Or live, or die, or sing, or weep. 

And now the banners all are bright, 

Now torn and blackened by the fight. 

Sometimes its laughter shakes the sky. 

Sometimes the groans of those who die. 

Still through the night and through the livelong day 
The infinite army marches on its remorseless way. 


DECEMBER 



By Joel Benton 
feud 


of hot and 


HEN the 
cold 

Leaves the autumn woodlands 
bare ; 

When the year is getting old. 

And flowers are dead, and keen 
the air; 


When the crow has new concern. 

And early sounds his raucous note ; 

And — where the late witch-hazels burn — » 
The squirrel from a chuckling throat 


226 


Tells that one larder’s space is filled. 

And tilts upon a towering tree ; 

And, valiant, quick, and keenly thrilled. 
Upstarts the tiny chickadee ; 

When the sun’s still shortening arc 

Too soon night’s shadows dun and gray 

Brings on, and fields are drear and dark. 

And summer birds have flown away, — 

I feel the year’s slow-beating heart, 

The sky’s chill prophecy I know ; 

And welcome the consummate art 

Which weaves this spotless shroud of snow ! 


IN JUNE 

By Nora Berry 

sweet, so sweet the roses in 
their blowing. 

So sweet the daffodils, so fair 
to see ; 

blithe and gay the humming- 
bird a-going 

From flower to flower, a-hunt- 
ing with the bee. 

So sweet, so sweet the calling of the thrushes. 

The calling, cooing, wooing, everywhere ; 

So sweet the water’s song through reeds and rushes, 
The plover’s piping note, now here, now there. 



227 


So sweet, so sweet from off the fields of clover 

The west wind blowing, blowing up the hill ; 

So sweet, so sweet with news of some one’s lover, 

Fleet footsteps, ringing nearer, nearer still. 

So near, so near, now listen, listen thrushes ; 

Now plover, blackbird, cease, and let me hear ; 

A^nd water, hush your song through reeds and 
rushes 

That I may know whose lover cometh near. 

io loud, so loud the thrushes kept their calling. 

Plover or blackbird never heeding me ; 

So loud the mill-stream too kept fretting, falling. 

O’er bar and bank, in brawling, boisterous 
glee. 

So loud, so loud ; yet blackbird, thrush, nor 
plover. 

Nor noisy mill-stream, in its fret and fall. 

Could drown the voice, the low voice of my 
lover. 

My lover calling through the thrushes’ call. 

‘‘ Come down, come down ! ” he called, and straight 
the thrushes 

From mate to mate sang all at once, Come 
down ! ” 

And while the water laughed through reeds and 
rushes. 

The blackbird chirped, the plover piped, Come 
down ! ” 


228 


Then down and off, and through the fields of 
clover, 

I followed, followed, at my lover’s call ; 
Listening no more to blackbird, thrush, or plover. 
The water’s laugh, the mill-stream’s fret and fall. 


AUGUST 

By William Davis Gallagher 

UST on mv mantle! dust. 

Bright Summer, on thy livery of 
green ! 

A tarnish, as of rust. 

Dims thy late-brilliant sheen : 
And thy young glories — leaf, 
and bud, and flower — 
Change cometh over them with every hour. 

Thee hath the August sun 
Looked on with hot, and fierce, and brassy face : 
And still and lazily run. 

Scarce whispering in their pace. 

The half-dried rivulets, that lately sent 
A shout of gladness up, as on they went. 

Flame-like, the long mid-day — 

With not so much of sweet air as hath stirr’d 
The down upon the spray. 

Where rests the panting bird. 

Dozing away the hot and tedious noon. 

With fitful twitter, sadly out of tune. 



229 


Seeds in the sultry air, 

And gossamer web-work on the sleeping trees ! 
E’en the tall pines, that rear 
Their plumes to catch the breeze, 

The slightest breeze from the unrefreshing west, 
Partake the general languor, and deep rest. 

Happy, as man can be. 

Stretch’d on his back, in homely bean-vine bower. 
While the voluptuous bee 
Robs each surrounding flower, 

And prattling childhood clambers o’er his breast, 
The husbandman enjoys his noon-day rest. 

Against the hazy sky 

The thin and fleecy clouds, unmoving, rest. 
Beneath them far, yet high 
In the dim, distant west. 

The vulture, scenting thence its carrion-fare<, 

Sails, slowly circling in the sunny air. 

Soberly, in the shade. 

Repose the patient cow, and toil-worn ox ; 

Or in the shoal stream wade, 

Sheltered by jutting rocks : 

The fleecy flock, fly-scourg’d and restless, rush 
Madly from fence to fence, from bush to bush. 

Tediously pass the hours. 

And vegetation wilts, with blistered root — 

And droop the thirsting flow’rs. 

Where the slant sunbeams shoot : 


230 


But of each tall old tree, the lengthening line, 
Slow-creeping eastward, marks the day’s decline. 

Faster, along the plain. 

Moves now the shade, and on the meadow’s edge ; 
The kine are forth again. 

The bird flits in the hedge. 

Now in the molten west sinks the hot sun. 
Welcome, mild eve! — the sultry day is done. 

Pleasantly comest thou. 

Dew of the evening, to the crisp’d-up grass ; 

And the curl’d corn-blades bow. 

As the light breezes pass. 

That their parch’d lips may feel thee, and expand, 
Thou sweet reviver of the fevered land. 

So, to the thirsting soul, 

Cometh the dew of the Almighty’s love ; 

And the scathed heart, made whole, 

Turneth in joy above. 

To where the spirit freely may expand. 

And rove, untrammel’d, in that better land.” 


THE CARDINAL BIRD 


By Williafn Davis Gallagher 


A DAY and then a week passed by : 

The redbird hanging from the sill 
Sang not ; and all were wondering why • 
It was so still — 

When one bright morning, loud and clear^ 

Its whistle smote my drowsy ear, 


231 


Ten times repeated, till the sound 
Filled every echoing niche around ; 

And all things earliest loved by me, — 

The bird, the brook, the flower, the tree, — 
Came back again, as thus I heard 
The cardinal bird. 

IVhere maple orchards towered aloft, 

And spicewood bushes spread below. 
Where skies were blue, and winds were soft, 

I could but go — 

For, opening through a wildering haze. 
Appeared my restless childhood’s days ; 

And truant feet and loitering mood 
Soon found me in the same old wood 
(Illusion’s hour but seldom brings 
So much the very form of things) 

Where first I sought, and saw, and heard 
The cardinal bird. 

Then came green meadows, broad and bright. 
Where dandelions, with wealth untold. 
Gleamed on the young and eager sight 
Like stars of gold ; 

And Oft the very meadow’s edge. 

Beneath the ragged blackberry hedge. 

Mid mosses golden, gray and green. 

The fresh young buttercups were seen. 

And small spring-beauties, sent to be 
The heralds of anemone : 

All just as where I earliest heard 
The cardinal bird. 


232 


Upon the gray old forest’s rim 

I snuffed the crab-tree’s sweet perfume ; 

And farther, where the light was dim, 

I saw the bloom 

Of May-apples, beneath the tent 
Of umbrel leaves above them bent ; 

Where oft was shifting light and shade 
The blue-eyed ivy wildly strayed ; 

And Solomon’s-seal, in graceful play. 

Swung where the straggling sunlight lay : 

The same as when I earliest heard 
The cardinal bird. 

And on the slope, above the rill 

That wound among the sugar-trees, 

I heard them at their labors still. 

The murmuring bees : 

Bold foragers ! that come and go 
Without permit from friend or foe; 

In the tall tulip-trees o’erhead 
On pollen greedily they fed. 

And from low purple phlox, that grew 
About my feet, sipped honey-dew : — 

How like the scenes when first I heard 
The cardinal bird ! 

How like! — and yet. . . . The spell grows weak:™ 
Ah, but I miss the sunny brow — 

The sparkling eye — the ruddy cheek ! 

Where, where are now 
The three who then beside me stood 
Like sunbeams in the dusky wood ? 


233 


Alas, I am alone ! Since then, 

They’ve trod the weary ways of men : 

One on the eve of manhood died ; 

Two in its flush of power and pride. 

Their graves are green, where first we heard 
The cardinal bird. 

The redbird, from the window hung, 

Not long my fancies thus beguiled : 

Again in maple-groves it sung 
Its wood-notes wild ; 

For, rousing with a tearful eye, 

I gave it to the trees and sky ! 

I missed so much those brothers three. 

Who walked youth’s flowery ways with me, 
I could not, dared not but believe 
It too had brothers, that would grieve 
Till in old haunts again ’t was heard, — 
The cardinal bird. 


THE ENGLISH SPARROW 

By Mary Isabella Forsyth 

S O dainty in plumage and hue, 

A study in grey and in brown. 
How little, how little we knew 
The pest he would prove to the town ! 

From dawn until daylight grows dim. 
Perpetual chatter and scold. 

No winter migration for him. 

Not even afraid of the cold ! 


234 


Scarce a song-bird he fails to molest, 
Belligerent, meddlesome thing ! 
Wherever he goes as a guest 

He is sure to remain as a King. 

Yet, from tip of his tail to his beak, 
I like him, the sociable elf. 

The reason is needless to seek, — 
Because Fm a gossip myself. 


TO A TROUBLESOME FLY 

By I'homas MacKellar 

HAT ! here again, indomitable 
pest ! 

Thou plagu’st me like a pep- 
per-temper’d sprite ; 

Thou makest me the butt of 
all thy spite. 

And bitest me, and buzzest as in 
jest. 

Ten times I’ve closed my heavy lids in vain 
This early morn to court an hour of sleep ; 

For thou — tormentor ! — constantly dost keep 
Thy whizzing tones resounding through my 
brain. 

Or lightest on my sensitive nose, and there 
Thou trimm’st thy wings and shak’st thy legs of hair : 

Ten times I’ve raised my hand in haste to smite, 
But thou art off ; and ere I lay my head 
And fold mine arms in quiet on my bed. 

Thou com’st again — and tak’st another bite. 



235 


As Uncle Toby says, ‘‘The world is wide 
Enough for thee and me/’ Then go, I pray. 
And through this world do take some other way. 
And let us travel no more side by side. 

Go, live among the flowers ; go anywhere ; 

Or to the empty sugar-hogshead go. 

That standeth at the grocer’s store below ; 

Go suit thy taste with any thing that’s there. 
There’s his molasses-measure ; there’s his cheese. 
And ham and herring : — What ! will nothing 
please ? 

Presumptuous imp ! then die ! — But no ! I’ll 
smite 

Thee not ; for thou, perchance, art young in days, 
And rather green as yet in this world’s ways ; 

So live and suffer — age may set thee right. 

ODE TO AUTUMN 

By John Keats 

EASON of mists and mellow 
fruitfulness ! 

Close bosom-friend of the 
maturing sun ; 

Conspiring with him how to 
load and bless 

With fruit the vines that 
round the thatch-eaves run ; 
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees, 

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core ; 

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel-shells 
With a sweet kernel ; to set budding more. 



236 


And still more, later flowers for the bees, 

Until they think warm days will never cease ; 
For Summer has o’erbrimm’d their clammy 
cells. 

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store ? 

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor. 

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind ; 

Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep. 

Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy 
hook 

Spares the next swath and all its twined flow- 
ers ; 

And sometime like a gleaner thou dost keep 
Steady thy laden head across a brook ; 

Or by a cider-press, with patient look. 

Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by 
hours. 

Where are the songs of spring ? Ay, where are 
they ? 

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, — 
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day. 

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; 
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 
Among the river-sallows, borne aloft 

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies ; 
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ; 
Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft 
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft, 
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. 


237 


ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 

By John Keats 

Written in the spring of 1819, when suffering 
from physical depression, the precursor of his 
death, which happened soon after. 

i heart aches, and a drowsy 
numbness pains 
My sense, as though of hem- 
lock I had drunk. 

Or emptied some dull opiate to 
the drains 

One minute past, and Lethe- 
ward had sunk : 

’Tis not through envy of thy happy lot. 

But being too happy in thy happiness, — 

That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees. 

In some melodious plot 
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 
Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 

Oh for a draught of vintage, that hath been 
Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth, 
Tasting of P'lora and the country green. 

Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt 
mirth ! 

Oh for a beaker full of the warm South, 




238 


Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 

With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, 
And purple-stained mouth ; 

That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, 
And with thee fade away into the forest dim : 

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 

What thou among the leaves hast never known. 
The weariness, the fever, and the fret 

Here, where men sit and hear each other 
groan ; 

Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs ; 
Where youth grows pale, and specter-thin, and 
dies ; 

Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
And leaden-eyed despairs. 

Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes. 
Or new Love pine at them beyond to- 
morrow. 

Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee. 

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards. 

But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards : 
Already with thee ! tender is the night. 

And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne. 
Clustered around by all her starry Fays; 

But here there is no light. 

Save what from heaven is with the breezes 
blown 

Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy 
ways. 


239 


I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, 

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, 
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 
Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ; 
White hawthorn and the pastoral eglantine ; 
Fast-fading violets, covered up in leaves ; 

And mid-May’s eldest child. 

The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine. 

The murmurous haunt of flies On summer ev*s. 

Darkling I listen ; and, for many a time 

I have been half in love with easeful Death, 
Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme. 

To take into the air my quiet breath ; 

Now more than ever seems it rich to die. 

To cease upon the midnight with no pain. 

While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 
In such an ecstasy ! 

Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain, — 
To thy high requiem becorne a sod. 

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird ! 

No hungry generations tread thee down ; 

The voice I hear this passing night was heard 
In ancient days by emperor and clown ; 

Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for 
home. 

She stood in tears amid the alien com ; 

The same that ofttimes hath 
Charmed magic casements opening on the foam 
Of perilous seas, in fairy-lands forlorn. 


240 


Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell 

To toll me back from thee to my sole self! 
Adieu ! the Fancy cannot cheat so well 
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 

Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades 
Past the near meadows, over the still stream, 
Up the hill-side; and now ’t is buried deep 
In the next valley-glades : 

Was it a vision, or a waking dream ? 

Fled is that music : — Do I wake or sleep ? 


THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN 

Andrew Marvell 

OW vainly men themselves 
amaze,. 

To win the palm, the oak, or 
bays. 

And their incessant labors see 
Crowned from some single herb 
or tree, 

narrow-verged shade 
Does prudently their toils upbraid ; 

While all the flowers and trees do close, 

To weave the garlands of repose. 

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here. 

And Innocence, thy sister dear ? 

Mistaken long, I sought you then 
In busy companies of men. 



241 


Your sacred plants, if here below, 

Only among the plants will grow ; 

Society is all but rude 
To this delicious solitude. 

No white nor red was ever seen 
So amorous as this lovely green. 

Fond lovers, cruel as their flame. 

Cut in these trees their mistress’ name : 
Little, alas ! they know or heed 
How far these beauties her exceed ! 

Fair trees ! where’er your barks I wound, 
No name shall but your own be found. 

When we have run our passion’s heat 
Love hither makes his best retreat. 

The gods, who mortal beauty chase, 

Still in a tree did end their race ; 

Apollo hunted Daphne so. 

Only that she might laurel grow ; 

And Pan did after Syrinx speed. 

Not as a nymph, but for a reed. 

What wondrous life is this I lead ! 

Ripe apples drop about my head ; 

The luscious clusters of the vine 
Upon my mouth do crush their wine; 

The nectarine, and curious peach. 

Into my hands themselves do reach ; 
Stumbling on melons, as I pass. 

Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass. 

Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, 
Withdraws into its happiness, — 


242 


The mind, that ocean where each kind 
Does straight its own resemblance find, 

Yet it creates, transcending these. 

Far other worlds, and other seas. 

Annihilating all that’s made 

To a green thought in a green shade. 

Here at the fountain’s sliding foot, 

Or at some fruit-tree’s mossy root, 

Casting the body’s vest aside. 

My soul into the boughs does glide ; 

There, like a bird, it sits and sings. 

Then whets and claps its silver wings, 

And, till prepared for longer flight. 

Waves in its plumes the various light. 

Such was that happy garden-state 
While man there walk’d without a mate : 
After a place so pure and sweet. 

What other help could yet be meet ! 

But ’twas beyond a mortal’s share 
To wander solitary there : 

Two paradises are in one, 

To live in Paradise alone. 

How well the skilful gardener drew 
Of flowers and herbs this dial new 
Where, from above, the milder sun 
Does through a fragrant zodiac run. 

And, as it works, th’ industrious bee 
Computes its time as well as we ! 

How could such sweet and wholesome hours 
Be reckon’d but with herbs and flowers ! 


243 


SHADOWS 

By IV illiam Sloane Kennedy 

HE moon a light -hung world 
of gold, 

Low-drooping, pale, and phan- 
tom-fair ; 

The fresh pomp of the summer 
leaves. 

And fragrance in the breathing 
air. 

Beneath the trees flat silhouettes, 

Mute idiot shapes that shun the light. 

Weird crook-kneed things, a fickle crew, 

The restless children of the night. 

In idle vacant pantomime 
They nod and nod forevermore. 

And clutch with aimless fluttering hands. 

With thin black hands the leaf-strewn floore 

Quivering, wavering there forever 
On the bright and silent ground, 

Meshed and tangled there together 
While the rolling earth goes round. 

And the gold-tinged aery ocean 
Ripples light in many a breeze 
O’er the sweet-breathed purple lilac, 

O’er the tall and slumbering trees. 



244 


THE PIPE OF PAN 


By Elizabeth Akers 



ERE in this wild, primeval dell 
Far from the haunts of man, 
Where never fashion’s footsteps 
fell. 

Where shriek of steam nor clang 
of bell. 

Nor din of those who buy and 
sell. 

Has broken Nature’s perfect spell, 

May one not hear, who listens well, 

The mystic pipe of Pan ? 


So virgin and unworldly seem 
All things in this deep glade 
Thick curtained from the noonday beam, 
That, hearkening, one may almost dream 
Fair naiads plashing in the stream. 

While graceful limbs and tresses, gleam 
Along the dim green shade. 


The cool brook runs as clear and sweet 
As ever water ran ; 

I almost hear the rhythmic beat 
Of pattering footfalls, light and fleet. 

As Daphne speeds, with flying feet 
To hide with leaves her safe retreat, — 
But not the pipe of Pan. 


245 


On yonder rocky mountain’s sides 
Do oreads dance and climb ? 

In that dark grot what nymph abides ? 
And when the freakish wind-god rides, 

Do sylphs float on the breezy tides, 

While in the hollow tree-trunk hides 
The dryad of old time ? 

Or is the world so changed to-day 
That all the sylvan clan, 

Nymph, dryad, oread, sylph and fay 
Have flown forevermore away. 

So, though we watch, and wait, and pray. 
Never again on earth will play ' 

The witching pipe of Pan ? 

Come, sit on yonder stone and play 
O Pan, thy pipe of reeds. 

As when the earth was young and gay. 
Long ere this dull and sordid day, — 

Play till we learn thy simple lay. 

And grief and discord fade away. 

And selfish care recedes ! 

O, darkened sense ! O, dense, deaf ear ! 

The world has placed its ban 
Against the genii, once so dear. 

And strife and greed, for many a year. 
Have spoiled the sweet old atmosphere. 
So, though he play, we cannot hear 
The wondrous pipe of Pan ! 


246 


THE MIRACLE-WORKERS 

Elizabeth Akers 

HO had seen them, the mystic 
sprites, 

The working forces of earth 
and air. 

And light and water, which, 
days and nights. 

Labor incessantly everywhere ? 
Those wondrous powers which since the birth 
Of growing things, when the first leaf sprung. 
Have kept the gracious and fruitful earth 
Renewed with years, and forever young. 

They taper the sprout to pierce the mould 
Of the yielding earth in the early spring. 

They edge the columbine’s red with gold, 

And paint the tanager’s brilliant wing, — 

They pencil lightly with tender pink 

The pale spring-beauty, that hides her flowers 
In chilly hollows, where snowdrifts shrink 
Under April’s persistent showers. 

They hang the boughs of the chestnut-tree 
With slender tassels of swinging bloom ; 

They wake the chrysalis tenderly 

And call forth life from its winter tomb ; 

They flatter the strawberry’s white to red. 

And dint its coral with amber seeds ; 

They honey the tubes of the clover-heads, 

And gild the ear-drops of jewel-weeds. 



247 


They trim the lanterns of living light 
That sail the air in the summer eves ; 

They stretch the gossamers in the night, 

They curl the tendrils, and notch the leaves. 

They lead the bee to the buckwheat-blooms 
Whose hidden nectar he else might miss ; 

They deck with garlands of silky plumes 
The clambering length of the clematis. 

They weave unseen in some magic loom 

The grass-spread cobwebs, bedropt with light, 

And blow to sudden and fragrant bloom 
The evening-primrose buds at night ; 

They teach the ox-eyes to dance and swing. 

And top the grass -waves like milk-white 
froth. 

They girdle the wasp with a golden ring. 

And powder with silver the candle-moth. 

They drape the curtains of morning mist, — 

They bridge with rainbows the cataract’s flood, 

They prank the pansy, and deftly twist 
The point of the morning-glory bud ; 

They give the earthquake its awful force ; 

The dread volcano obeys their word ; 

They rouse the whirlwind and shape its course, — 
And bronze the neck of the humming-bird. 

They round the dew-drop that winks and shines 
Like a diamond-spark when the grass is wet ; 

They trace with purple the dainty lines 
In the cup of the shy white violet ; 


248 


They warm the peach with a scarlet streak, 
And touch its velvet with rich perfume ; 
They redden the ripening apple’s cheek, 

And dust the grape with its azure bloom. 

They shape the snowflakes in perfect forms 
Of stars and crosses and tiny spheres ; 
They beckon the tides and rule the storms. 
And rend the rocks of a thousand years, — 
But who shall see them, the wondrous powers 
Of earth and water and light and air 
Which counting cycles as only hours. 

Labor incessantly everywhere ? 


SNOW 

Elizabeth Akers 

O, what wonders the day hath 
brought. 

Born of the soft and slum- 
brous snow ! 

Gradual, silent, slowly wrought ; 
Even as an artist, thought by 
thought. 

Writes expression on lip and brow. 

Hanging garlands the caves o’erbrim. 

Deep drifts smother the paths below ; 

The elms are shrouded, trunk and limb, 

And all the air is dizzy and dim 

With a whirl of dancing, dazzling snow. 




249 


Dimly out of the baffled sight 

Houses and church-spires stretch away ; 

The trees, all spectral and still and white, 
Stand up like ghosts in the failing light, 

And fade and faint with the blinded day. 

f 

Down from the roofs in gusts are hurled 
The eddying drifts to the waste below; 

And still is the banner of storm unfurled. 

Till all the drowned and desolate world 
Lies dumb and white in a trance of snow. 

Slowly the shadows gather and fall, 

Still the whispering snow-flakes beat ; 

Night and darkness are over all : 

Rest, pale city, beneath their pall ! 

Sleep, white world, in thy winding-sheet ? 

Clouds may thicken, and storm-winds breathe : 

On my wall is a glimpse of Rome, — 

Land of my longing ! — and underneath 
Swings and trembles my olive-wreath ; 

Peace and I are at home, at home ! 


THE BROOK 



I COME from haunts of coot and hern, 
I make a sudden sally. 

And sparkle out among the fern, 

To bicker down a valley. 


250 


By thirty hills I hurry down, 

Or slip between the ridges, 

By twenty thorps, a little town. 

And half a hundred bridges. 

Till last by Philip’s farm I flow 
To join the brimming river. 

For men may come and men may go. 
But I go on for ever. 

I chatter over stony ways. 

In little sharps and trebles, 

I bubble into eddying bays, 

I babble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve my banks I fret 
By many a field and fallow. 

And many a fairy foreland set 
With willow-weed and mallow. 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow 
To join the brimming river. 

For men may come and men may go. 
But I go on for ever. 

I wind about, and in and out, 

With here a blossom sailing. 

And here and there a lusty trout. 

And here and there a grayling. 

And here and there a foamy flake 
Upon me, as I travel 
With many a silvery waterbreak 
Above the golden gravel. 


251 


c< 


And draw them all along, and flow 
To join the brimming river, 

For men may come and men may go. 
But I go on for ever. 

I steal by lawns and grassy plots, 

I slide by hazel covers ; 

I move the sweet forget-me-nots 
That grow for happy lovers. 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance. 

Among my skimming swallows 5 

I make the netted sunbeam dance 
Against my sandy shallows. 

I murmur under moon and stars 
In brambly wildernesses ; 

I linger by my shingly bars ; 

I loiter round my cresses; 

And out again I curve and flow 
To join the brimming river. 

For men may come and men may go. 
But I go on for ever. 

THE DRAGON-FLY 

(From The Two Voices ”) 

By Alfred fennyson 

T O-DAY I saw the dragon-fly 

Come from the wells where he did lie. 

An inner impulse rent the veil 
Of his old husk: from head to tail 
Came out clear plates of sapphire mail. 


252 


He dried his wings : like gauze they grew; 
Thro’ crofts and pastures wet with dew 
A living flash of light he flew.” 


THE BLACKBIRD 


By 


Alfred fennyson 



BLACKBIRD ! sing me some- 
thing well : 

While all the neighbors shoot 
thee round, 

I keep smooth plats of fruitful 
ground, 

Where thou may’st warble, eat 
and dwell. 


The espaliers and the standards all 

Are thine ; the range of lawn and park : 
The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark. 
All thine, against the garden wall. 


Yet, tho’ I spared thee all the spring. 

Thy sole delight is, sitting still. 

With that gold dagger of thy bill 
To fret the summer jenneting. 

A golden bill ! the silver tongue. 

Cold February loved, is dry : 

Plenty corrupts the melody 
That made thee famous once, when young : 



253 


And in the sultry garden-squares, 

Now thy flute-notes are changed to coarse, 
I hear thee not at all, or hoarse 
As when a hawker hawks his wares. 

Take warning ! he that will not sing 
While yon sun prospers in the blue. 

Shall sing for want, ere leaves are new. 
Caught in the frozen palms of Spring. 


A FAREWELL 

By Alfred fennyson 

\ 

LOW down, cold rivulet, to the 
sea. 

Thy tribute wave deliver : 

No more by thee my steps shall 
be, 

For ever and for ever. 

Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, 

A rivulet then a river : 

No where by thee my steps shall be. 

For ever and for ever. 

But here will sigh thine alder tree. 

And here thine aspen shiver ; 

And here by thee will hum the bee, 

For ever and for ever. 



254 


A thousand suns will stream on thee, 
A thousand moons will quiver; 

But not by thee my steps shall be. 
For ever and for ever. 


THE EAGLE 

(Fragment) 

Alfred fenny son 

E clasps the crag with hooked 
hands ; 

Close to the sun in lonely lands, 
Ring’d with the azure world, he 
stands. 

The wrinkled sea beneath him 
crawls ; 

He watches from his mountain walls, 

And like a thunderbolt he falls. 

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK 

By Alfred fenny son 

B reak, break, break. 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! 

And I would that my tongue could utter 
The thoughts that arise in me. 

O well for the fisherman’s boy. 

That he shouts with his sister at play ! 

O well for the sailor lad. 

That he sings in his boat on the bay ! 



255 


And the stately ships go on 

To their haven under the hill ; 

But O for the touch of a vanish’d hand, 
And the sound of a voice that is still ! 

Break, break, break. 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! 

But the tender grace of a day that is dead 
Will never come back to me. 


AUTUMN 

(From In Memoriam”) 

By Alfred fennyson 

ALM is the morn without a 
sound. 

Calm as to suit a calmer 
grief. 

And only thro’ the faded leaf 
The chestnut pattering to the 
ground : 

Calm and deep peace on this high wold. 

And on these dews that drench the furze, 

And all the silvery gossamers 
That twinkle into green and gold : 

Calm and still light on yon great plain 

That sweeps with all its autumn bowers. 

And crowded farms and lessening towers, 

To mingle with the bounding main : 



256 


Calm and deep peace in this wide air, 

These leaves that redden to the fall ; 
And in my heart, if calm at all, 

If any calm, a calm despair : 

Calm on the seas, and silver sleep. 

And waves that sway themselves in rest, 
And dead calm in that noble breast 
Which heaves but with the heaving deep. 


THE THROSTLE 

Alfred fennyson 

UMMER is coming, summer 
is coming. 

I know it, I know it, I know 
it. 

Light again, leaf again, life again, 
love again,” 

Yes, my wild little Poet. 

Sing the new year in under the blue. 

Last year you sang it as gladly. 

New, new, new, new ! ” Is it then $0 new 
That you should carol so madly ? 

Love again, song again, nest again, young again,” 
Never a prophet so crazy ! 

And hardly a daisy as yet, little friend. 

See, there is hardly a daisy. 



257 


Here again, here, here, here, happy year ! 
O warble unchidden, unbidden ! 

Summer is coming, is coming, my dear. 
And all the winters are hidden.” 


APRIL DAYS 

(From In Memoriam *’) 

By Alfred fennyson 



down upon the northern 
shore, 

O sweet new-year delaying 
long; 

Thou doest expectant nature 
wrong ; 

Delaying long, delay no more. 


What stays thee from the clouded noons. 
Thy sweetness from its proper place ? 
Can trouble live with April days. 

Or sadness in the summer moons ? 

Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire. 
The little speedwell’s darling blue. 
Deep tulips dash’d with fiery dew, 
Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire. 

O thou, new-year, delaying long, 

Delayest the sorrow in my blood, 

That longs to burst a frozen bud, 

And flood a fresher throat v/iih song. 


258 


EARLY SPRING 

By Alfred fennyson 

I 

NCE more the Heavenly Power 
Makes all things new, 

And domes the red-plow’d hills 
With loving blue ; 

The blackbirds have their wills, 
The throstles too. 

II 

Opens a door in Heaven ; 

From skies of glass 
A Jacob’s ladder falls 
On greening grass, 

And o’er the mountain-walls 
Young angels pass. 



Ill 

Before them fleets the shower. 
And burst the buds. 

And shine the level lands. 

And flash the floods; 

The stars are from their hands 
Flung thro’ the woods. 




259 


IV 

The woods with living airs 
How softly fann’d, 

Light airs from where the deep, 
All down the sand, 

Is breathing in his sleep. 

Heard by the land. 

V 

O follow, leaping blood. 

The season’s lure ! 

O heart, look down and up. 
Serene, secure. 

Warm as the crocus cup. 

Like snow-drops, pure ! 

VI 

Past, Future glimpse and fade 
Thro’ some slight spell. 
Some gleam from yonder vale. 
Some far blue fell. 

And sympathies, how frail. 

In sound and smell ! 

VII 

Till at thy chuckled note. 

Thou twinkling bird. 

The fairy fancies range. 

And, lightly stirred. 

Ring little bells of change 
From word to word. 


26 o 


VIII 

For now the Heavenly Power 
Makes all things new, 

And thaws the cold, and fills 
The flower with dew ; 

The blackbirds have their wills, 
The poets too. 


SPRING 


(From In Memoriam 

By Alfred fennyson 



OW fades the last long streak of 
snow, 

Now burgeons every maze of 
quick 

About the flowering squares, 
and thick 

By ashen roots the violets blow. 


Now rings the woodland loud and long. 
The distance takes a lovelier hue. 
And drown’d in yonder living blue 
The lark becomes a sightless song. 


Now dance the lights on lawn and lea. 
The flocks are whiter down the vale, 
, And milkier every milky sail 
On winding stream or distant sea ; 


26 i 


Where now the seamew pipes, or dives 
In yonder greening gleam, and fly 
The happy birds, that change their sky 
To build and brood ; that live their lives 

From land to land; and in my breast 
Spring wakens too ; and my regret 
Becomes an April violet, 

And buds, and blossoms like the rest. 


THE SHELL 

(From Maud ”) 

By Alfred fennyson 

I 

EE what a lovely shell, 

Small and pure as a pearl. 
Lying close to my foot. 

Frail, but a work divine. 

Made so fairily well 
With delicate spire and whorl, 
How exquisitely minute, 

A miracle of design ! 

II 

What is it ? a learned man 
Could give it a clumsy name. 

Let him name it who can. 

The beauty would be the same. 



262 


III 

The tiny cell is forlorn, 

Void of the little living will 
That made it stir on the shore. 

Did he stand at the diamond door 
Of his house in a rainbow frill ? 

Did he push, when he was uncurl’d, 
A golden foot or a fairy horn 
Thro’ his dim water-world ? 

IV 

Slight, to be crush’d with a tap 
Of my finger-nail on the sand. 
Small, but a work divine. 

Frail, but of force to withstand. 
Year upon year, the shock 
Of cataract seas that snap 
The three decker’s oaken spine 
Athwart the ledges of rock. 

Here on the Breton strand ! 


-I AM AN ACME OF THINGS 
ACCOMPLISHED ” 

(From ‘‘ Walt Whitman ”) 

By Walt Whitman 

I AM an acme of things accomplished, and I 
an encloser of things to be. 

My feet strike an apex of the apices of 
the stairs j 


263 


On every step bunches of ages, and larger bunches 
between the steps ; 

All below duly travelPd, and still I mount and 
mount. 

Rise after rise bow the phantoms behind me ; 

Afar down I see the huge first Nothing — I know 
I was even there ; 

I waited unseen and always, and slept through the 
lethargic mist. 

And took my time, and took no hurt from the fetid 
carbon. 

Long I was hugg’d close — long and long. 

Immense have been the preparations for me. 

Faithful and friendly the arms that have help’d me. 

Cycles ferried my cradle, rowing and rowing like 
cheerful boatmen ; 

For room to me stars kept aside in their own rings; 

They sent influences to look after what was to 
hold me. 

Before I was born out of my mother, generations 
guided me. 

My embryo has never been torpid — nothing could 
overlay it. 

For it the nebula cohered to an orb. 

The long slow strata piled to rest it on. 

Vast vegetables gave it sustenance. 

Monstrous sauroids transported it in their mouths, 
and deposited it with care. 


264 


All forces have been steadily employ’d to complete 
and delight me ; 

Now on this spot I stand with my robust Soul. 


THE MICROCOSM 

(From Walt Whitman”) 

By Walt Whitman 

BELIEVE a leaf of grass is no 
less than the journey-work 
of the stars, 

And the pismire is equally per- 
fect, and a grain of sand, 
and the egg of the wren. 
And the tree-toad is a chef- 
d’oeuvre for the highest. 

And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors 
of heaven. 

And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn 
all machinery. 

And the cow crunching with depress’d head sur- 
passes any statue, 

And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextil- 
lions of infidels. 

And I could come every afternoon of my life to 
look at the farmer’s girl boiling her iron tea- 
kettle and baking short-cake. 



205 


I find I incorporate gneiss, coal, long-threaded moss, 
fruits, grains, esculent roots. 

And am stucco’d with quadrupeds and birds all 
over. 

And have distanced what is behind me for good 
reasons. 

And call anything close again, when I desire it. 

In vain the speeding or shyness ; 

In vain the plutonic rocks send their old heat 
against my approach ; 

In vain the mastodon retreats beneath its own^ 
powder’d bones ; 

In vain objects stand leagues off, and assume mani- 
fold shapes ; 

In vain the ocean settling in hollows, and the great 
monsters lying low; 

In vain the buzzard houses herself with the sky ; 

In vain the snake slides through the creepers and 
logs ; 

In vain the elk takes to the inner passes of the 
woods ; 

In vain the razor-bill’d auk sails far north to Lab- 
rador ; 

I follow quickly, I ascend to the nest in the fissure 
of the cliiF. 


266 


‘^OXEN THAT RATTLE THE 
YOKE AND CHAIN ” 

(From “Walt Whitman’’)' 

By Walt Whitman 

XEN that rattle the yoke and 
chain, or halt in the leafy 
shade ! 

What is that you express in 
your eyes ? 

It seems to me more than all the 
print I have read in my 
life. 

My tread scares the wood-drake and the wood- 
duck, on my distant and day-long ramble ; 

They rise together — they slowly circle around. 

I believe in those wing’d purposes. 

And acknowledge red, yellow, white, playing with- 
in me, 

And consider green and violet, and the tufted 
crown, intentional ; 

And do not call the tortoise unworthy because she 
is not something else ; 

And the jay in the woods never studied the gamut, 
yet trills pretty well to me ; 

And the look of the bay mare shames silliness out 
of me. 



267 


BARE-BOSOM’D NIGHT 

(From ** Walt Whitman 

By Walt Whitman 

AM he that walks with the ten- 
der and growing night ; 

I call to the earth and sea, half- 
held by the night. 

Press close, bare-bosomM night ! 
Press close, magnetic, nourishing 
night ! 

Night of south winds ! night of the large few stars! 
Still, nodding night ! mad, naked, summer night. 

Smile, O voluptuous, cool-breathM earth I 
Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees ; 

Earth of departed sunset ! earth of the mountains, 
raisty-topt ! 

Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon, just 
tinged with blue I 

Earth of shine and dark, mottling the tide of the river! 
Earth of the limpid gray of clouds, brighter and 
clearer for my sake ! 

Far-swooping elbow’d earth! rich, apple-blossom’d 
earth ! 

Smile, for your lover comes ! 

Prodigal, you have given me love ! Therefore I to 
you give love ! 

O unspeakable, passionate love ! 




268 


YOU SEA! 

(From ‘‘ Walt Whitman”) 

By Walt Whitman 

3U sea ! I resign myself to you 
also — I guess what you 
mean; 

I behold from the beach your 
crooked inviting fingers ; 

I believe you refuse to go back 
without feeling of me ; 

We must have a turn together — I undress — 
hurry me out of sight of the land ; 

• Cushion me soft, rock me in billowy drowse ; 

Dash me with amorous wet — I can repay you. 

Sea of stretch’d ground-swells ! 

Sea breathing broad and convulsive breaths ! 

Sea of the brine of life ! sea of unshovell’d yet 
always-ready graves ! 

Howler and scooper of storms ! capricious and 
dainty sea ! 

I am integral with you — I too am of one phase, 
and of all phases. 



269 


THIS COMPOST 


(From ‘‘ Leaves of Grass ”) 

By JValt WhiUnan 


lOMETHING startles me where 
I thought I was safest; 

I withdraw from the still woods 
I loved ; 

I will not go now on the past- 
ures to walk ; 

I will not strip the clothes from 
my body to meet my lover 
the sea; 

I will not touch my flesh to the earth, as to other 
flesh, to renew me. , 



2 

O how can it be that the ground itself does not 
sicken ? 

How can you be alive, you growths of spring ? 

How can you furnish health, you blood of herbs, 
roots, orchards, grain ? 

Are they not continually putting distemper’d 
corpses within you ? 

Is not every continent work’d over and over with 
sour dead ? 


Where have you disposed of their carcasses 
Those drunkards and gluttons of so many genera- 
tions ; 


270 


Where have you drawn ofF all the foul liquid and 
meat ? 

I do not see any of it upon you to-day — or per- 
haps I am deceiv’d ; 

I will run a furrow with my plough — I will 
press my spade through the sod, and turn it up 
underneath ; 

I am sure I shall expose some of the foul meat. 

3 

Behold this compost ! behold it well ! 

Perhaps every mite has once form’d part of a sick 
person — Yet behold ! 

The grass of spring covers the prairies, 

The bean bursts noiselessly through the mould in 
the garden. 

The delicate* spear of the onion pierces upward. 

The apple-buds cluster together on the apple- 
branches. 

The resurrection of the wheat appears with pale 
visage out of its graves. 

The tinge awakes over the willow-tree and the 
mulberry-tree, 

The he-birds carol mornings and evenings, while 
the she-birds sit on their nests. 

The young of poultry break through the hatched 

eggs, 

The new-born of animals appear — the calf is dropt 
from the cow, the colt from the mare. 

Out of its little hill faithfully rise the potato’s dark 
green leaves. 


271 


Out of its hill rises the yellow maize-stalk — the 
lilacs bloom in the door-yards ; 

The summer growth is innocent and disdainful 
above all those strata of sour dead. 

What chemistry ! 

That the winds are really not infectious, 

That this is no cheat, this transparent green-wash 
of the sea, which is so amorous after me. 

That it is safe to allow it to lick my naked body 
all over with its tongues. 

That it will not endanger me with the fevers that 
have deposited themselves in it. 

That all is clean forever and forever. 

That the cool drink from the well tastes so good. 
That blackberries are so flavorous and juicy. 

That the fruits of the apple-orchard, and of the 
orange-orchard — that melons, grapes, peaches, 
plums, will none of them poison me. 

That when I recline on the grass I do not catch 
any disease. 

Though probably every spear of grass rises out of 
what was once a catching disease. 

4 

Now I am terrified at the Earth! it is that calm and 
patient. 

It grows such sweet things out of such corruptions, 
It turns harmless and stainless on its axis, with 
such endless successions of diseas’d corpses. 

It distils such exquisite winds out of such infused 
fetor, 


272 


It renews with such unwitting looks, its prodigal, 
annual, sumptuous crops. 

It gives such divine materials to ‘men, and accepts 
such leavings from them at last. 


THERE WAS A CHILD WENT 
FORTH 

(From “ Leaves of Grass 

By Walt Whitman 

HERE was a child went forth 
every day ; 

And the first object he look’d up- 
on, that object he became } 
And that object became part of 
him for the day, or a certain 
part of the day, or for many 
years, or stretching cycles of 
years. 

The early lilacs became part of this child. 

And grass, and white and red morning-glories, and 
white and red clover, and the song of the phoebe- 
bird. 

And the Third-month lambs, and the sow’s pink- 
faint litter, and the mare’s foal, and the cow’s 
calf. 

And the noisy brood of the barn-yard, or by the 
mire of the pond-side. 




273 


And the fish suspending themselves so curiously 
below there — and the beautiful curious 
liquid, 

And the water-plants with their graceful flat heads 
— all became part of him. 

The field-sprouts of Fourth-month and Fifth- 
month became part of him ; 

Winter-grain sprouts, and those of the light-yellow 
corn, and the esculent roots of the garden. 

And the apple-trees cover’d with blossoms, and 
the fruit afterward, and wood-berries, and the 
commonest weeds by the road ; 

And the old drunkard staggering home from the 
out-house of the tavern, whence he had lately 
risen, 

And the school-mistress that pass’d on her way to 
the school. 

And the friendly boys that pass’d — and the quarrel- 
some boys. 

And the tidy and fresh-cheek’d girls — and the 
barefoot negro boy and girl. 

And all the changes of city and country, wherever 
he went. 

His own parents. 

He that had father’d him, and she that had con- 
ceiv’d him in her womb, and birth’d him. 

They gave this child more of themselves than 
that ; 

They gave him afterward every day — they became 
part of him. 


274 


The mother at home, quietly placing the dishes on 
the supper-table ; 

The mother with mild words — clean her cap and 
gown, a wholesome odor falling off her person 
and clothes as she walks by ; 

The father, strong, self-sufficient, manly, mean, 
anger’d, unjust ; 

The blow, the quick loud word, the tight bargain, 
the crafty lure. 

The family usages, the language, the company, the 
furniture — the yearning and swelling heart. 

Affection that will not be gainsay’d — the sense 
of what is real — the thought if, after all, it 
should prove unreal, 

The doubts of day-time and the doubts of night- 
time — the curious whether and how. 

Whether that which appears so is so, or is it all 
flashes and specks ? 

Men and women crowding fast in the streets — if 
they are not flashes and specks, what are they ? 

The streets themselves, and the facades of houses, 
and goods in the windows. 

Vehicles, teams, the heavy-plank’d wharves — the 
huge crossing at the ferries. 

The village on the highland, seen from afar at sun- 
set — the river between. 

Shadows, aureola and mist, the light falling on 
roofs and gables of white or brown, two miles 
off. 

The schooner near by, sleepily dropping down the 
tide — the little boat slack-tow’d astern, 


275 


The hurrying tumbling waves, quick-broken crests, 
slapping. 

The strata of color’d clouds, the long bar of ma- 
roon-tint, away solitary by itself — the spread 
of purity it lies motionless in. 

The horizon’s edge, the flying sea-crow, the fra- 
grance of salt marsh and shore mud ; 

These became part of that child who went forth 
every day, and who now goes, and will always 
go forth every day. 


THE CLOSING SCENE 

By T^hofnas Buchanan Read 

ITHIN the sober realm of leaf- 
less trees 

The russet year inhaled the 
dreamy air ; 

Like some tanned reaper in his 
hour of ease. 

When all the fields are lying 
brown and bare. 

The gray barns, looking from their hazy hills. 

O’er the dim waters, widening in the vales, 

Sent down the air a greeting to the mills. 

On the dull thunder of alternate flails. 

All sights were mellowed, and all sounds subdued, 
The hills seemed farther and the streams sang low; 
As in a dream, the distant woodman hewed 
His winter log with many a muffled blow. 



276 


The embattled forests, erewhile, armed in gold, 
Their banners bright with every martial hue, 

Now stood, like some sad beaten host of old 
Withdrawn afar in Time’s remotest blue. 

On slumberous wings the vulture tried his flight ; 
The dove scarce heard his sighing mate’s com- 
plaint ; 

And like a star, slow drowning in the light. 

The village church vane seemed to pale and faint. 

The sentinel cock upon the hill-side crew — 

Crew thrice, and all was stiller than before — 

Silent till some replying warden blew 

His alien horn, and then was heard no more. 

Where, erst, the jay within the elm’s tall crest. 
Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged 
young; 

And where the oriole hung her swaying nest, 

By every light wind like a censer swung ; 

Where sang the noisy masons of the eaves. 

The busy swallows circling ever near. 

Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes. 

An early harvest, and a plenteous year ; 

Where every bird that waked the vernal feast 

Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn, 

To warn the reaper of the rosy east ; — 

All now was songless, empty, and forlorn. 


Alone, from out the stubble, piped the quail, 

And croaked the crow through all the dreary 
gloom ; 

Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale. 

Made echo to the distant cottage-loom. 

There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers; 
The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by 
night ; 

The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers. 

Sailed slowly by — passed noiseless out of sight. 

Amid all this — in this most cheerless air. 

And where the woodbine shed upon the porch 
Its crimson leaves, as if the Year stood there. 
Firing the floor with its inverted torch ; — 

Amid all this, the centre of the scene. 

The white-haired matron, with monotonous 
tread. 

Plied the swift wheel, and with her joyless mien. 
Sat like a fate, and watched the flying thread. 

She had known sorrow. He had walked with her. 
Oft supped, and broke with her the ashen crust. 
And, in the dead leaves, still she heard the stir 
Of his black mantle trailing in the dust. 

While yet her cheek was bright with summer 
bloom. 

Her country summoned, and she gave her all. 
And twice, war bowed to her his sable plume — 
Re-gave the swords, to rust upon the wall. 


278 


Re-gave the swords — but not the hand that drew> 
And struck for liberty the dying blow ; 

Nor him who, to his sire and country true, 

Fell mid the ranks of the invading foe. 

Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on. 
Like the low murmur of a hive at noon ; 

Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone, 

Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune. 

At last the thread was snapped — her head was 
bowed ; 

Life dropped the distaff through his hands serene; 
And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud, 
While Death and Winter closed the Autumn 
scene. 


THE LITTLE BEACH-BIRD 

By Richard Henry Dana 

T hou llttle bird, thou dweller by the sea. 
Why takest thou its melancholy voice ? 
Why with that boding cry 
O’er the waves dost thou fly? 

O, rather, bird, with me 

Through the fair land rejoice ! 

Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale, 

As driven by a beating storm at sea ; 

Thy cry is weak and scared. 

As if thy mates had shared 
The doom of us. Thy wail — 

What does it bring to me ? 


279 


Thou call’st along the sand, and haunt’st the surge, 
Restless and sad ; as if, in strange accord 
With the motion, and the roar 
Of waves that drive to shore. 

One spirit did ye urge — 

The Mystery — the Word, 

Of thousands thou both sepulchre and pall. 

Old ocean, art ! A requiem o’er the dead 
From out thy gloomy cells 
A tale of mourning tells — 

Tells of man’s woe and fall. 

His sinless glory fled. 

Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight 
Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring 
Thy spirit never more. 

Come, quit with me the shore 
For gladness, and the light 
Where birds of summer sing. 


SMOKE 

By Henry David l^horeau 

L IGHT-WINGED Smoke! Icarianbird, 
Melting thy pinions in thy upward flight ; 
Lark without song, and messenger of dawn, 
Circling above the hamlets as thy nest ; 

Or else, departing dream, and shadowy form 
Of midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts ; 

By night star-veiling, and by day 


28 o 


Darkening the light and blotting out the sun ; 
Go thou, my incense, upward from this hearth, 
And ask the gods to pardon this clear flame. 


MIST 

By Henry David ^horeau 

OW-ANCHORED cloud, 
Newfoundland air. 

Fountain-head and source of 
rivers. 

Dew-cloth, dream-drapery, 

And napkin spread by fays ; 
Drifting meadow of the air, 
Where bloom the daisied banks and violets. 

And in whose fenny labyrinth 
The bittern booms and heron wades ; 

Spirit of lakes and seas and rivers, — 

Bear only perfumes and the scent 
Of healing herbs to just men’s fields. 
% 

THE LARK 

By James Hogg 

B ird of the wilderness. 

Blithesome and cumberless. 

Sweet be thy matin o’er moorland and lea ! 
Emblem of happiness. 

Blest is thy dwelling-place : 

O to abide in the desert with thee ! 




28 i 


Wild is thy lay, and loud, 

Far in the downy cloud ; 

Love gives it energy — love gave it birth ! 
Where, on thy dewy wing — 

Where art thou journeying ? 

Thy lay is in heaven, — thy love is on earth. 

O’er fell and fountain sheen. 

O’er moor and mountain green. 

O’er the red streamer that heralds the day ; 
Over the cloudlet dim. 

Over the rainbow’s rim. 

Musical cherub, soar, singing, away ! 

Then, when the gloaming comes. 

Low in the heather blooms. 

Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be ! 
Emblem of happiness. 

Blest is thy dwelling-place — 

O to abide in the desert with thee ! 

PART OF IL PENSEROSO 

By John Milton 

S WEET bird, that shunn’st the noise of folly, 
Most musical, most melancholy! 

Thee, chantress, oft, the woods among, 

I woo, to hear thy even-song : 

And, missing thee, I walk unseen 
On the dry smooth-shaven green, 

To behold the wandering moon, 

Riding near her highest noon. 


282 


Like one that had been led astray 
Through the heaven’s wide pathless way ; 
And oft, as if her head she bowed, 
Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 


PART OF L’ALLEGRO 

Bj John Milton 

3 hear the lark begin his flight. 
And singing startle the dull 
night, 

From his watch-tower in the 
skies. 

Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; 
Then to come in spite of sorrow, 
And at my window bid good morrow. 

Through the sweet-brier, or the vine, 

Or the twisted eglantine ; 

While the cock with lively din 
Scatters the rear of Darkness thin. 

And to the stack, or the barn-door, 

Stoutly struts his dames before : 

Oft listening how the hounds and horn 
Cheerly rouse the slumbering Morn, 

From the side of some hoar hill 
Through the high wood echoing shrill : 

Sometime walking, not unseen. 

By hedge-row elms, cn hillocks green. 

Right against the eastern gate. 

Where the great sun begins his state. 




283 


Robed in flames, and amber light, 

The clouds, in thousand liveries dight ; 

While the ploughman near at hand 
Whistles o’er the furrowed land, 

And the milkmaid singeth blithe. 

And the mower whets his scythe, 

And every shepherd tells his tale 
Under the hawthorn in the dale. 

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures 
Whilst the landscape round it measures ; 
Russet lawns, and fallows gray. 

Where the nibbling flocks do stray, — 
Mountains, on whose barren breast 
The laboring clouds do often rest, — 
Meadows trim with daisies pied. 

Shallow brooks, and rivers wide ; 

Towers and battlements it sees 
Bosomed high in tufted trees. 

Where perhaps some beauty lies. 

The cynosure of neighboring eyes. 


THE CRICKET 

By William Cowper 

L ittle inmate, full of mirth. 
Chirping on my kitchen hearth, 
Whereso’er be thine abode 
Always harbinger of good. 


284 


Pay me for thy warm retreat 
With a song more soft and sweet ; 

In return thou shalt receive 
Such a strain as I can give. 

Thus thy praise shall be expressed, 
Inoffensive, welcome guest ! 

While the rat is on the scout, 

And the mouse with curious snout. 
With what vermin else infest 
Every dish, and spoil the best ; 
Frisking thus before the fire, 

Thou hast all thine heart’s desire. 

Though in voice and shape they be 
f'ormed as if akin to thee, 

Thou surpassest, happier far. 

Happiest grasshoppers that are ; 

Theirs is but a summer’s song — 
Thine endures the winter long. 
Unimpaired and shrill, and clear. 
Melody throughout the year. 

Neither night nor dawn of day 
Puts a period to thy play : 

Sing then — and extend thy span 
Far beyond the date of man ; 
Wretched man, whose years are spent 
In repining discontent. 

Lives not, aged though he be. 

Half a span, compared with thee. 


285 


TO SENECA LAKE 

By James Gates Percwal 

N thy fair bosom, silver lake, 
The wild swan spreads his 
i snowy sail, 

And round his breast the ripples 
I break. 

As down he bears before the 
gale. 

On thy fair bosom, waveless stream, 

The dipping paddle echoes far. 

And flashes in the moonlight gleam, 

And bright reflects the polar star. 

The waves along thy pebbly shore. 

As blows the north-wind, heave their foam, 

And curl around the dashing oar. 

As late the boatman hies him home. 

How sweet, at set of sun, to view 
Thy golden mirror spreading wide. 

And see the mist of mantling blue 

Float round the distant mountain’s side. 

At midnight hour, as shines the moon, 

A sheet of silver spreads below. 

And swift she cuts, at highest noon. 

Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow. 




286 


On thy fair bosom, silver lake, 

O ! I could ever sweep the oar, — 
When early birds at morning wake, 
And evening tells us toil is o’er f 


NIGHT AND DEATH 

By Joseph Blanco IVhite 

YSTERIOUS Night ! when 
our first parent knew 
Thee, from report divine, and 
heard thy name. 

Did he not tremble for this lovely 
Frame, 

This glorious canopy of Light 
and Blue ? 

Yet, ’neath a curtain of translucent dew. 

Bathed in the rays of the great setting Flame, 
Hesperus, with the Host of Heaven, came. 

And lo ! Creation widened on Man’s view. 

Who could have thought such Darkness lay con- 
cealed 

Within thy beams, O Sun ! or who could find, 
A^hilst flower and leaf and insect stood revealed, 
That to such countless Orbs thou mad’st us blind ! 
Why do we then shun Death with anxious strife i 
If Light can thus deceive, wherefore not Life ? 




287 


THE DAISY 

James Montgomery 

HERE is a flower, a little flower 
With silver crest and golden eye, 
That welcomes every changing 
hour. 

And weathers every sky. 

The prouder beauties of the field, 
succession shine ; 

Race after race their honors yield. 

They flourish and decline. 

But this small flower, to Nature dear. 

While moons and stars their courses run, 
Inwreathes the circle of the year 
Companion of the sun. 

It smiles upon the lap of May, 

To sultry August spreads its charm, 

Lights pale October on his way. 

And twines December’s arm. 

The purple heath and golden broom, 

On moory mountains catch the gale ; 

O’er lawns the lily sheds perfume, 

The violet in the vale. 

But this bold floweret climbs the hill, 

Hides in the forest, haunts the glen. 

Plays on the margin of the rill. 

Peeps round the fox’s den. 




288 


Within the garden’s cultured round 
It shares the sweet carnation’s bed ; 

And blooms on consecrated ground 
In honor of the dead. 

The lambkin crops its crimson gem ; 
The wild bee murmurs on its breast^ 

The blue-fly bends its pensile stem 
Light o’er the skylark’s nest. 

’Tis Flora’s page — in every place, 

In every season, fresh and fair ; 

It opens with perennial grace, 

And blossoms everywhere. 

On waste and woodland, rock and plain. 
Its humble buds unheeded rise ; 

The rose has but a summer reign ; 

The Daisy never dies ! 


THE TIGER 


By IV illiam Blake 

IGER ! Tiger ! burning bright, 
In the forests of the night ; 
What immortal hand or eye 
Could frame thy fearful symme- 
try ? 

In what distant deeps or skies 
Burned the fire of thine eyes ? 
On what wings dare he aspire ? 

What the hand dare seize the fire ? 



289 


And what shoulder, and what art, 

Could twist the sinews of thine heart ? 

And when thy heart began to beat, 

What dread hand?. and what dread feet? 

What the hammer, what the chain ? 

In what furnace was thy brain ? 

What the anvil ? what dread grasp 
Dare its deadly terrors clasp ? 

When the stars threw down their spears. 
And watered heaven with their tears. 

Did he smile his work to see ? 

Did He, Who made the Lamb, make thee ? 

Tiger ! Tiger ! burning bright. 

In the forests of the night. 

What immortal hand or eye 
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry ? 


TO THE CUCKOO 

By John Logan 

AIL, beauteous stranger of the 
grove ! 

Thou messenger of Spring ! 
Now heaven repairs thy rural seat. 
And woods thy welcome sing. 

Soon as the daisy decks the green^ 
Thy certain voice we hear. 
Hast thou a star to guide thy path. 

Or mark the rolling year ? 



290 


Delightful visitant ! with thee 
I hail the time of flowers, 

And hear the sound of music sweet 
From birds among the bowers. 

The schoolboy, wandering through the wood 
To pull the primrose gay. 

Starts, thy most curious voice to hear, 

And imitates thy lay. 

What time the pea puts on the bloom, 

Thou fliest thy vocal vale. 

An annual guest in other lands. 

Another Spring to hail. 

Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green. 

Thy sky is ever clear ; 

Thou hast no sorrow in thy song. 

No Winter in thy year ! 

Oh, could I fly. I’d fly with thee ! 

We’d make, with joyful wing. 

Our annual visit o’er the globe, 1 
Attendants on the Spring. ' 


THE O’LINCOLN FAMILY 

By Wilson Flagg 

A FLOCK of merry singing-birds were sport- 
ing in the grove; 

Some were warbling cheerily, and some 
were making love : 


291 


There were Bobolincon, Wadolincon, Winter- 
seeble, Conquedle, — 

A livelier set was never led by tabor, pipe, or 
fiddle, — 

Crying, Phew, shew, Wadolincon, see, see, Bobo- 
lincon, 

Down among the tickletops, hiding in the butter- 
cups ! 

I know the saucy chap, I see his shining cap 

Bobbing in the clover there — see, see, see ! ’’ 

Up flies Bobolincon, perching on an apple-tree. 

Startled by his rival’s song, quickened by his rail- 
lery, 

Soon he spies the rogue afloat, curveting in the 
air. 

And merrily he turns about, and warns him to be- 
ware ! 

’Tis you that would a-wooing go, down among 
the rushes O ! 

But wait a week, till flowers are cheery, — wait a 
week, and ere you marry 

Be sure of a house wherein to tarry ! 

Wadolink, Whiskodink, Tom Denny, wait, wait, 
wait ! ” 

Every one’s a funny fellow every one’s a little 
mellow ; 

Follow, follow, follow, follow, o’er the hill and in 
the hollow ! 

Merrily, merrily, there they hie ; now they rise and 
now they fly ; 


292 


They cross and turn, and in and out, and down in 
^^the middle, and wheel about, — 

With a Phew, shew, Wadolincon ! listen to me, 
Bobolincon ! — 

Happy’s the wooing that’s speedily doing, that’s 
speedily doing. 

That’s merry and over with the bloom of the 
clover ! 

Bobolincon, Wadolincon, Winterseeble, follow, 
follow me ! ” 


THE WINGED WORSHIPPERS 

By Charles Sprague 

(Addressed to two swallows that flew into the 
Chauncy Place Church during divine service.) 

AY, guiltless pair. 

What seek ye from the fields of 
heaven ? 

Ye have no need of prayer ; 
Ye have no sins to be forgiven* 

Why perch ye here. 

Where mortals to their Maker bend ? 

Can your pure spirits fear 
The God ye never could offend ? 

Ye never knew 

The crimes for which we come to weep. 

Penance is not for you. 

Blessed wanderers of the upper deep. 



293 


To you ’t is given 

To wake sweet nature’s untaught lays, 
Beneath the arch of heaven 
To chirp away a life of praise. 

Then spread each wing 
Far, far above, o’er lakes and lands. 

And join the choirs that sing 
In yon blue dome not reared with hands. 

Or, if ye stay. 

To note the consecrated hour. 

Teach me the airy way. 

And let me try your envied power. 

Above the crowd 
On upward wings could I but fly. 

I’d bathe in yon bright cloud. 

And seek the stars that gem the sky. 

’Twere heaven indeed 
Through fields of trackless light to soar, 

On nature’s charms to feed, 

And nature’s own great God adore. 

BIRCH STREAM 

By Anna Boynton Averill 

A t noon, within the dusty town. 

Where the wild river rushes down. 
And thunders hoarsely all day long, 
I think of thee, my hermit stream. 

Low singing in thy summer dream 
Thine idle, sweet, old, tranquil song. 


294 


Northward, Katahdin’s chasmed pile 
Looms through thy low, long, leafy aisle, 
Eastward, Olamon’s summit shines ; 
And I upon thy grassy shore. 

The dreamful, happy child of yore. 
Worship before mine olden shrines. 

Again the sultry noontide hush 
Is sweetly broken by the thrush. 

Whose clear bell rings and dies away 
Beside thy banks, in coverts deep. 

Where nodding buds .of orchis sleep 
In dusk, and dream not it is day. 

Again the wild cow-lily floats 
Her golden-freighted, tented boats, 

In thy cool coves of softened gloom. 
Overshadowed by the whispering reed, 
And purple plumes of pickerel-weed. 

And meadow-sweet in tangled bloom. 

The startled minnows dart in flocks 
Beneath thy glimmering amber rocks. 

If but a zephyr stirs the brake ; 

The silent swallow swoops, a flash 
Of light, and leaves, with dainty plash, 

A ring of ripples in her wake. 

— Without, the land is hot and dim ; 

The level fields in languor swim. 

Their stubble-grasses brown as dust ; 
And all along the upland lanes. 

Where shadeless noon oppressive reigns. 
Dead roses wear their crowns of rust. 


295 


Within, is neither blight nor death, 

The fierce sun wooes with ardent breath, 

But cannot win thy sylvan heart. 

Only the child who loves thee long. 

With faithful worship pure and strong. 

Can know how dear and sweet thou art. 

So loved I thee in days gone by. 

So love I yet, though leagues may lie 
Between us, and the years divide ; — 

A breath of coolness, dawn, and dew, — 

A joy forever fresh and true. 

Thy memory doth with me abide. 

THE SONG-SPARROW 

By George Parsons Lathrop 

LIMMERS gray the leafless 
thicket 

Close beside my garden gate, 
Where, so light, from post to 
picket 

Hops the sparrow, blithe, se- 
date ; 

meekly folded wing. 

Comes to sun himself and sing. 

It was there, perhaps, last year, 

Th^t his little house he built ; 

For he seems to perk and peer. 

And to twitter, too, and tilt 

The bare branches in between. 

With a fond, familiar mien. 



296 


Once, I know, there was a nest, 

Held there by the sideward thrust 

Of those twigs that touch his breast ; 

Though ’tis gone now. Some rude gust 
Caught it, over-full of snow, — 

Bent the bush, — and stole it so. 

Thus our highest holds are lost. 

By the ruthless winter’s wind. 

When, with swift-dismantling frost. 

The green woods we dwelt in, thinn’d 
Of their leafage, grow too cold. 

For frail hopes of summer’s mold. 

But if we, with spring-days mellow. 

Wake to woeful wrecks of change, 

And the sparrow’s ritornello 

Scaling still its old sweet range ; 

Can we do a better thing 

Than, with him, still build and sing ) 

Oh, my sparrow, thou dost breed 
Thought in me beyond all telling ; 

Shootest through me sunlight, seed. 

And fruitful blessing, with that welling 
Ripple of ecstatic rest 
Gurgling ever from thy breast ! 

And thy breezy carol spurs 
Vital motion in my blood. 

Such as in the sap-wood stirs. 

Swells and shapes the pointed bud 
Of the lilac ; and besets 
The hollow thick with violets. 


Yet I know not any charm 

That can make the fleeting time 
Of thy sylvan, faint alarm 
Suit itself to human rhyme : 

And my yearning rhythmic word 
Does thee grievous wrong, blithe bird. 

So, however thou hast wrought 
This wild joy on heart and brain, 

It is better left untaught. 

Take thou up the song again : 

There is nothing sad afloat 
On the tide that swells thy throat ! 


THE HERALD CRANE 

By Hamlin Garland 

H ! say you so, bold sailor 

In the sun-lit deeps of sky ! 
Dost thou so soon the seed-time 
tell 

In thy imperial cry. 

As circling in yon shoreless sea 
Thine unseen form goes drift- 
ing by ? 

I can not trace in the noon-day glare 
Thy regal flight, O crane ! 

From the leaping might of the fiery light 
Mine eyes recoil in pain. 

But on mine ear, thine echoing cry 
Falls like a bugle strain. 



298 


The mellow soil glows beneath my feet, 
Where lies the buried grain ; 

The warm light floods the length and breadth, 
Of the vast, dim, shimmering plain. 
Throbbing with heat and the nameless thrill 
Of the birth-time’s restless pain. 

On weary wing, plebeian geese 
Push on their arrowy line 
Straight into the north, or snowy brant 
In dazzling sunshine, gloom and shine ; 

But thou, O crane, save for thy sovereign cry, 
At thy majestic height 
On proud, extended wings sweep’st on 
In lonely, easeful flight. 

Then cry, thou martial-throated herald ! 

Cry to the sun, and sweep 
And swing along thy mateless, tireless course 
Above the clouds that sleep 
Afloat on lazy air — cry on ! Send down 
Thy trumpet note — it seems 
The voice of hope and dauntless will. 

And breaks the spell of dreams. 

LINE UP, BRAVE BOYS 

By Hamlin Garland 

T he packs are on, the cinches tight. 
The patient horses wait. 

Upon the grass the frost lies white. 
The dawn is gray and late. 


299 


The leader’s cry rings sharp and clear, 
The campfires smoulder low ; 

Before us lies a shallow mere, 

Beyond, the mountain snow. 

Line up^ line up^ boySy 

The east is gray with coming day^ 
We must away^ we cannot stay. 
Hy-o^ hy-ak^ brave boys ! ” 

Five hundred miles behind us lie. 

As many more ahead, 

Through mud and mire on mountains high 
Our weary feet must tread. 

So one by one, with loyal mind. 

The horses swing to place. 

The strong in lead, the weak behind. 

In patient plodding grace. 

Hy-o^ Bucks kin.^ brave boy^ ^oe ! 
The sun is high^ 

The hid loons cry : 

Hy-ak — away ! Hy-o / ” 


THE WHISTLING MARMOT 

By Hamlin Garland 

O N mountains cold and bold and high, 
Where only golden eagles fly, 

He builds his home against the sky. 

Above the clouds he sits and whines. 

The morning sun about him shines ; 

Rivers loop below in shining lines. 


300 


No wolf or cat may find him there, 
That winged corsair of the air, 

The eagle, is his only care. 

He sees the pink snows slide away, 

He sees his little ones at play. 

And peace fills out each summer day. 

In winter, safe within his nest. 

He eats his winter store with zest. 

And takes his young ones to his breast. 


THE TOIL OF THE TRAIL 

Hamlin Garland 

HAT have I gained by the toil of 
the trail ? 

I know and know well. 

I have found once again the lore 
I had lost 

In the loud city’s hell. 

my hand to the cinch and the axe, 
I have laid my flesh to the rain ; 

I was hunter and trailer and guide ; 

I have touched the most primitive wildness again. 

I have threaded the wild with the stealth of the deer, 
No eagle is freer than I ; 

No mountain can thwart me, no torrent appall, 

I defy the stern sky. 

So long as I live these joys will remain, 

I have touched the most primitive wildness again. 


By 



I have broadened 


301 


PEACE 


By Charles De Kay 

|EEN gleams the wind, and all the 
ground 

Is bare and chapped with bitter 
cold. 

The ruts are iron ; fish are found 
Encased in ice as in a mold; 
The frozen hilltops ache with pain 
And shudders tremble down each shy 
Deep rootlet burrowing in the plain ; — 

Now mark the sky. 



Softly she pulls a downy veil 
Before her clear Medusa face ; 

This, falling slow, abroad doth trail 
Across the wold a feathery trace, 
Whereunder soon the moaning earth 
Aslumber stretches dreamily. 

Forgot both pain and summer’s mirth. 
Soothed by the sky. 


APRIL 

By Samuel Longfellow 

A gain has come the Spring-time, 

With the crocus’s golden bloom. 

With the smell of the fresh-turned earth- 
mould. 

And the violet’s perfume. 


302 


O gardener ! tell me the secret 

Of thy flowers so rare and sweet ! — 
— I have only enriched my garden 
With the black mire from the street/’ 


NOVEMBER 

By Samuel Longfellow 

HE dead leaves their rich mosaics. 
Of olive and gold and brown, 
Had laid on the rain-wet pave- 
ments, 

Through all the embowered 
town. 

They were washed by the au- 
tumn tempest, 

They were trod by hurrying feet. 

And the maids came out with their besoms. 

And swept them into the street. 

To be crushed and lost forever 

’Neath the wheels, in the black mire lost, — 
The Summer’s precious darlings. 

She nurtured at such cost ! 

O words that have fallen from me ! 

O golden thoughts and true ! 

Must I see in the leaves a symbol 
Of the fate which awaiteth you ? 




303 


THE CRICKETS 

By Harriet McEwen Kimball 

little minstrels of the waning 
year, 

In gentle concert pipe ! 

Pipe the warm noons ; the mel- 
low harvest near ; 

The apples dropping ripe ; 

be tempered sunshine and the 
softened shade ; 

The trill of lonely bird ; 

The sweet sad hush on Nature’s gladness laid \ 
The sounds through silence heard ! 

Pipe tenderly the passing of the year ; 

The Summer’s brief reprieve ; 

The dry husk rustling round the yellow ear \ 

The chill of morn and eve ! 

Pipe the untroubled trouble of the year ; 

Pipe low the painless pain ; 

Pipe your unceasing melancholy cheery 
The year is in the wane. 

COME FOR ARBUTUS 

By Mrs. Sara L. Oberholtzer 

C OME for arbutus, my dear, my dear: 

The pink waxen blossoms are waking,! hear; 
We’ll gather an armful of fragrant wild cheer. 
Come for arbutus, my dear, my dear. 

Come for arbutus, my dear. 



304 


Come for arbutus, my dear, my dear ; 

Come through the gray meadow, and pass the 
black weir. 

To brown-margined forest, and part the leaves 
sere. 

Come for arbutus, my dear, my dear. 

Come for arbutus, my dear. 

Come for arbutus, my dear, my dear ; 

We’ll gather the first virgin bloom of the year. 
The blush of spring kisses with coral lips near* 
Come for arbutus, my dear, my dear. 

Come for arbutus, my dear. 


THE DANDELIONS 

By Helen Gray Cone 

PON a showery night and still. 
Without a sound of warning, 
A trooper band surprised the 
hill. 

And held it in the morning. 
We were not waked by bugle 
notes, 

No cheer our dreams invaded, ^ 

And yet, at dawn, their yellow coats 
On the green slopes paraded. 

We careless folk the deed forgot ; 

Till one day, idly walking, 

Wc marked upon the self-same spot 
A crowd of veterans talking. 



305 


They shook their trembling heads and gray 
With pride and noiseless laughter ; 
When, well-a-day ! they blew away, 

And ne’er were heard of after ! 


HYMN TO DARKNESS 

By y. Norris 

AIL thou most sacred venerable 
thing ! 

What Muse is worthy thee to 
sing ? 

Thee, from whose pregnant uni- 
versal womb 

All things, even Light thy rival, 
first did come. 

What dares he not attempt that sings of thee 
Thou first and greatest mystery ? 

Who can the secrets of thy essence tell ? 

Thou like the light of God art inaccessible. 

Before great Love this monument did raise, 

This ample theatre of praise. 

Before the folding circles of the sky 
Were tun’d by Him who is all harmony. 

Before the morning stars their hymn began. 

Before the councel held for man. 

Before the birth of either Time or Place, 

Thou reign’st unquestion’d monarch in the empty 
space. 



3o6 


Thy native lot thou didst to Light resign, 

But still half of the globe is thine. 

Here with a quiet, and yet aweful hand. 

Like the best emperours thou dost command. 

To thee the stars above their brightness owe. 

And mortals their repose below, % 

To thy protection Fear and Sorrow flee. 

And those that weary are of light, find rest in thee, 

Tho’ light and glory be th’ Almighty’s throne, 
Darkness is His pavilion. 

From that His radiant beauty, but from thee 
He has His terror and His majesty. 

Thus when He first proclaim’d His sacred Law, 
And would His rebel subjects awe. 

Like princes on some great solemnity, 

H’ appear’d in’s robes of State, and clad Himself 
with thee. 

The blest above do thy sweet umbrage* prize. 
When cloy’d with light, they veil their eyes. 

The vision of the Deity is made 
More sweet and beatifick by thy shade. 

But we poor tenants of this orb below 
Don’t here thy excellencies know. 

Till Death our understandings does improve. 

And then our wiser ghosts thy silent night-walks love. 

But thee I now admire, thee would I chuse 
For my religion, or my Muse. 

’Tis hard to tell whether thy reverend shade 
Has more good votaries or poets made, 

* Shadow. 


307 


From thy dark caves were inspirations given, 

And from thick groves went vows to Heaven. 
Hail then thou Muse’s and Devotion’s spring, 

’Tis just we should adore, ’tis just we should thee 
sing. 


THE OVEN-BIRD 

By Frank Bolles 

N the hollows of the mountains, 
In the valleys spreading from 
them, 

Stand the rustling broad-leaved 
forests. 

Trees whose leaves are shed m 
autumn. 

Underneath them lie the leaf beds. 

Resting one upon another. 

Laid there yearly by the storm winds ; 

Pressed and smoothed by winter snow-drifts. 

In the days of spring migrations. 

Days when warbler hosts move northward. 

To the forests, to the leaf beds. 

Comes the tiny oven builder. 

I 

Daintily the leaves he tiptoes ; 

Underneath them builds his oven. 

Arched and framed with last year’s oak leaves, 
Roofed and walled against the raindrops. 




3o8 


Hour by hour his voice he raises, 
Mingling with the red-eye’s snatches, 
Answering to the hermit’s anthem ; 
Rising — falling, like a wind breath. 

Strange, ventriloquous his music. 

Far away when close beside one ; 

Near at hand when seeming distant ; 
Weird — his plaintive accrescendo. 

Teach us ! teach us! is his asking. 
Uttered to the Omnipresent : 

Teach us ! teach us ! comes responsive 
From the solemn listening forest. 

When the whip-poor-will is clucking. 
When the bats unfurl their canvas. 
When dim twilight rules the forest. 
Soaring towards the high star’s radiance 
Far above the highest treetop. 

Singing goes this sweet Accentor, 

Noontide never sees this soaring. 
Midday never hears this music, 

Only at the hour of slumber, 

Only once, as day is dying. 

When the perils and the sorrows. 
When the blessings and the raptures. 
One and all have joined the finished. 
Does this sweet-toned forest singer 
Urge his wings towards endless ether. 
Hover high a single moment 
Pouring out his spirit’s gladness 
Toward the Source of life and being. 


309 


THE SNOW-FILLED NEST 

By Rose T'erry Cooke 

r swings upon the leafless tree, 
By stormy winds blown to and 
fro; 

Deserted, lonely, sad to see. 

And full of cruel snow. 

In summer’s noon the leaves 
above 

Made dewy shelter from the heat; 

The nest was full of life and love ; — 

Ah, life and love are sweet ! 

The tender brooding of the day. 

The silent, peaceful dreams of night. 

The joys that patience overpay. 

The cry of young delight. 

The song that through the branches rings, 

The nestling crowd with eager eyes. 

The flutter soft of untried wings, 

The flight of glad surprise : — 

All, all are gone ! I know not where ; 

And still upon the cold gray tree, 

Lonely, and tossed by every air, 

That snow-filled nest I see. 

I, too, had once a place of rest. 

Where life, and love, and peace were mine — 
Even as the wild-birds build their nest. 

When skies and summer shine. 




310 


But winter came, the leaves were dead ; 
The mother-bird was first to go, 

The nestlings from my sight have fled ; 
The nest is full of snow. 


THE WISTFUL DAYS 

By Robert Underwood Johnson 

HAT is there wanting in the 
Spring ? 

Soft is the air as yester- 
year; 

The happy-nested green is 
here. 

And half the world is on the 
wing. 

The morning beckons, and like balm 
Are westward waters blue and calm. 

Yet something’s wanting in the Spring. 

What is it wanting in the Spring ? 

O April, lover to us all. 

What is so poignant in thy thrall 
When children’s merry voices ring ? 

What haunts us in the cooing dove 
More subtle than the speech of Love, 

What nameless lack or loss of Spring ? 

Let Youth go dally with the Spring, 

Call her the dear, the fair, the young ; 

And all her graces ever sung 



3II 


Let him, once more rehearsing, sing. 

They know, who keep a broken tryst. 
Till something from the Spring be missed 
We have not truly known the Spring. 


TO THE HOUSATONIC AT 
STOCKBRIDGE 

By Robert Underwood Johnson 

)NTENTED river! in thy 
dreamy realm — 

The cloudy willow and the 
plumy elm : 

They call thee English, thinking 
thus to mate 

Their musing streams that, oft 
with pause sedate. 

Linger through misty meadows for a glance 
At haunted tower or turret of romance. 

Beware their praise who rashly would deny 
To our New World its true tranquillity. 

Our New World ” ? Nay, say rather to our Old 
(Let truth and freedom make us doubly bold) ; 

Tell them : A thousand silent years before 
Their sea-born isle — at every virgin shore 
Dripping like Aphrodite’s tresses — rose. 

Here, ’neath her purple veil, deep slept Repose, 

To be awakened but by wail of war. 

About thy cradle under yonder hill. 

Before thou knewest bridge, or dam, or mill. 

Soft winds of starlight whispered heavenly lore, 



312 


Which, like our childhood’s, all the workday toil 
Cannot efface, nor long its beauty sojl. 

Thou hast grown human laboring with men 
At wheel and spindle ; sorrow thou dost ken ; 

Yet dost thou still the unshaken stars behold. 

Calm to their calm returning, as of old. 

Thus, like a gentle nature that grows strong 
In meditation for the strife with wrong. 

Thou show’st the peace that only tumult can ; 
Surely, serener river never ran. 

Thou beautiful ! From every dreamy hill 
What eye but wanders with thee at thy will. 
Imagining thy silver course unseen 
Convoyed by two attendant streams of green 
In bending lines, — like half-expected swerves 
Of swaying music, or those perfect curves 
We call the robin ; making harmony 
With many a new-found treasure of the eye : 
With meadows, marging smoothly rounded hills 
Where Nature teemingly the myth fulfils 
Of many-breasted Plenty; with the blue. 

That to the zenith fades through triple hue. 

Pledge of the constant day ; with clouds of white. 
That haunt horizons with their blooms of light. 
And when the east with rosy eve is glowing 
Seem like full cheeks of zephyrs gently blowing. 

Contented river ! and yet over-shy 
To mask thy beauty from the eager eye ; 

Hast thou a thought to hide from field and town ? 
In some deep current of the sunlit brown 


Art thou disquieted — still uncontent 
With praise from thy Homeric bard, who lent 
The world the placidness thou gavest him ? 

Thee Bryant loved when life was at its brim ; 

And when the wine was falling, in thy wood 
Of sturdy willows like a Druid stood. 

Oh, for his touch on this o’er-throbbing time, 

His hand upon the hectic brow of Rhyme, 

Cooling its fevered passion to a pace 
To lead, to stir, to re-inspire the race ! 

Ah ! there’s a restive ripple, and the swift 
Red leaves — September’s firstlings — faster drift ; 
Betwixt twin aisles of prayer they seem to pass 
(One green, one greenly mirrored in thy glass). 
Wouldst thou away, dear stream ? Come, whisper 
near ! 

1 also of much resting have a fear : 

Let me to-morrow thy companion be 
By fall and shallow to the adventurous sea ! 


LITTLE BROTHERS OF THE 
GROUND 

By Edwin Markham 

L ittle ants in leafy wood. 

Bound by gentle Brotherhood, 
While ye gaily gather spoil. 

Men are ground by the wheel of toil ; 


While ye follow Blessed Fates^ 

Men are shriveled up with hates; 

Or they lie with sheeted Lust, 

And they eat the bitter dust. 

Ye are fraters in your hall, 

Gay and chainless, great and small ; 
All are toilers in the field. 

All are sharers in the yield. 

But we mortals plot and plan 
How to grind the fellow-man ; 

Glad to find him in a pit. 

If we get some gain of it. 

So with us, the sons of Time, 

Labor is a kind of crime, 

For the toilers have the least. 

While the idlers lord the feast. 

Yes, our workers they are bound. 
Pallid captives to the ground ; 
Jeered by traitors, fooled by knaves. 
Till they stumble into graves. 

How appears to tiny eyes 
All this wisdom of the wise ? 


THE FLYING MIST 

By Edwin Markham 

I WATCH afar the moving Mystery, 

The wool-shod, formless terror of the sea — 
The Mystery whose lightest touch can change 
The world God made to phantasy, death-strange. 


3^5 


Under its spell all things grow old and gray 
As they will be beyond the Judgment Day. 

All voices, at the lifting of some hand, 

Seem calling to us from another land. 

Is it the still Power of the Sepulchre 
That makes all things the wraiths of things that 
were ? 

It touches, one by one, the wayside posts. 

And they are gone, a line of hurrying ghosts. 

It creeps upon the towns with stealthy feet. 

And men are phantoms on a phantom street. 

It strikes the towers and they are shafts of air, 
Above the spectres passing in the square. 

The city turns to ashes, spire by spire ; 

The mountains perish with their peaks afire. 

The fading city and the falling sky 

Are swallowed in one doom without a cry. 

It tracks the traveller fleeing with the gale. 

Fleeing toward-home and friends without avail ; 

It springs upon him and he is a ghost, 

A blurred shape moving on a soundless coast. 

God ! it pursues my love along the stream. 

Swirls round her and she is forever dream. 

What Hate has touched the universe with eld, 

And left me only in a world dispelled ? 


3i6 


A STRIP OF BLUE 

By Lucy Larcom 

DO not own an inch of land, 
But all I see is mine, — 

The orchard and the mowing- 
fields. 

The lawns and gardens fine. 
The winds my tax-collectors 
are, 

tithes divine, — 

Wild scents and subtle essences, 

A tribute rare and free ; 

And, more magnificent than all, 

My window keeps for me 
A glimpse of blue immensity, — 

A little strip of sea. 

Richer am I than he who owns 
Great fleets and argosies ; 

I have a share in every ship 
Won by the inland breeze 
To loiter on yon airy road 
Above the apple-trees. 

I freight them with my untold dreams ; 

Each bears my own picked crew ; 

And nobler cargoes wait for them 
Than ever India knew,-^ — 

My ships that sail into the East 
Across that outlet blue. 



Sometimes they seem like living shapes, — 
The people of the sky, — 

Guests in white raiment coming down 
From Heaven, which is close by ; 

I call them by familiar names. 

As one by one draws nigh. 

So white, so light, so spirit-like. 

From violet mists they bloom ! 

The aching wastes of the unknown 
Are half reclaimed from gloom. 

Since on life’s hospitable sea 
All souls find sailing-room. 

The ocean grows a weariness 
With nothing else in sight ; 

Its east and west, its north and south, 
Spread out from morn till night ; 

We miss thd'warm, caressing shore. 

Its brooding shade and light, 

A part is greater than the whole ; 

By hints are mysteries told. 

The fringes of eternity, — 

God’s sweeping garment-fold. 

In that bright shred of glittering sea, 

I reach out and hold. 

The sails, like flakes of roseate pearl. 

Float in upon the mist ; 

The waves are broken precious stones, — 
Sapphire and amethyst. 

Washed from celestial basement walls 
By suns unsetting kissed. 


Out through the utmost gates of space, 
Past where the gray stars drift, 

To the widening Infinite, my soul 
Glides on, a vessel swift ; 

Yet loses not her anchorage 
In yonder azure rift. 

Here sit I, as a little child : 

The threshold of God’s door 
Is that clear band of chrysoprase ; 

Now the vast temple floor, 

The blinding glory of the dome 
I bow my head before : 

Thy universe, O God, is home, 

In height or depth, to me; 

Yet here upon thy footstool green 
Content am I to be ; 

Glad, when is opened unto my need 
Some sea-like glimpse of thee. 


ALBATROSS 

By Charles IVarren Stoddard 

IME cannot age thy sinews, nor 
the gale 

Batter the network of thy feath- 
ered mail. 

Lone sentry of the deep ! 
Among the crashing caverns of 
the storm. 

With wing unfettered, lo ! thy frigid form 
Is whirled in dreamless sleep ! 



3^9 


Where shall thy wing find rest for all its might ? 
Where shall thy lidless eye, that scours the night, 
Grow blank in utter death ? 

When shall thy thousand years have stripped thee 
bare. 

Invulnerable spirit of the air. 

And sealed thy giant-breath ? 

Not till thy bosom hugs the icy wave, — 

Not till thy palsied limbs sink in that grave. 
Caught by the shrieking blast. 

And hurled upon the sea with broad wings locked, 
On an eternity of waters rocked. 

Defiant to the last ! 


TO THE MOCKING-BIRD 

By Richard Henry Wilde 

^^■“■■■■“““■•INGED mimic of the woods! 

I shall thy gay buffoonery 

ly I I I ever-ready notes of ridi- 

Pursue thy fellows still with jest 
and gibe. 

Wit, sophist, songster, Yorick of thy tribe. 

Thou sportive satirist of Nature’s school. 

To thee the palm of scoffing we ascribe. 
Arch-mocker and mad Abbot of Misrule 1 



320 


For such thou art by day, — but all night long 
Thou pourest a soft, sweet, pensive, solemn strain, 
As if thou didst in this thy moonlight song 
Like to the melancholy Jacques complain. 

Musing on falsehood, folly, vice, and wrong. 

And sighing for thy motley coat again. 


A CHRYSALIS 


By Mary Emily Bradley 



little Madchen found one day 
A curious something in her play. 
That was not fruit, nor flower, 
nor seed ; 

It was not anything that grew. 
Or crept, or climbed, or swam^ 
or flew ; 

neither legs nor wings, indeed ; 

And yet she was not sure, she said. 

Whether it was alive or dead. 


She brought it in her tiny hand 
To see if I would understand. 

And wondered when I made reply, 
‘‘You’ve found a baby butterfly.” 

“ A butterfly is not like this,” 

With doubtful look she answered me. 
So then I told her what would be 
Some day within the chrysalis ; 

How, slowly, in the dull brown thing 
Now still as death, a spotted wing, 


321 


And then another, would unfold, 

Till from the empty shell would fly 
A pretty creature, by and by. 

All radiant in blue and gold. 

And will it, truly ? ” questioned she — 
Her laughing lips and eager eyes 
All in a sparkle of surprise — 

And shall your little Madchen see ? ’’ 
She shall ! ” I said. How could I tell 
That ere the worm within its shell 
Its gauzy, splendid wings had spread, 

My little Madchen would be dead ? 

To-day the butterfly has flown, — 

She was not here to see it fly, — 

And sorrowing I wonder why 
The empty shell is mine alone. 

Perhaps the secret lies in this : 

I too had found a chrysalis. 

And Death that robbed me of delight 
Was but the radiant creature’s flight ( 


THE VOICE OF THE GRASS 

By Sarah Roberts Boyle 

H ere I come creeping, creeping everywhere ; 
By the dusty road-side. 

On the sunny hill-side. 

Close by the noisy brook. 

In every shady nook, 

I come creeping, creeping everywhere. 


322 


Here I come creeping, smiling everywhere ; 
All around the open door, 

Where sit the aged poor ; 

Here where the children play. 

In the bright and merry May, 

I come creeping, creeping everywhere. 

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere j 
In the noisy city street 
My pleasant face you’ll meet. 

Cheering the sick at heart 
Toiling his busy part — 

Silently creeping, creeping everywhere. 

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere j 
You cannot see me coming. 

Nor hear my low sweet humming ; 

For in the starry night. 

And the glad morning light, 

I come quietly creeping everywhere. 

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere ; 
More welcome than the flowers 
In Summer’s pleasant hours : 

The gentle cow is glad. 

And the merry bird not sad, 

To see me creeping, creeping everywhere. 

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere : 
When you’re numbered with the dead 
In your still and narrow bed, 

' In the happy spring I’ll come 
And deck your silent home — 
Creeping, silently creeping everywhere. 


Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere ^ 
My humble song of praise 
Most joyfully I raise 
To Him at whose command 
I beautify the land, 

Creeping, silently creeping everywhere. 


THE LONELY-BIRD 


In the Adirondacks 

By Harrison Smith Morris 

DAPPLED throat of white ! 
Shy, hidden bird ! 
Perched in green dimness of 
the dewy wood. 

And murmuring, in that lonely, 
lover mood. 

Thy heart-ache, softly heard. 
Sweetened by distance, over land and lake. 

Why, like a kinsman, do I feel thy voice 
Awaken voices in me free and sweet ? 

Was there some far ancestral birdhood fleet 
That rose and would rejoice : 

A broken cycle rounded in a song ? 

The lake, like steady wine in a deep cup. 

Lay crystal in the curving mountain deeps ; 

And now the air brought that long lyric up 
That sobs, then falls and weeps. 

And hushes silence into listening hope. 




324 


Is it that we were sprung of one old kin, 

Children of brooding earth, that lets us tell, 
Thou from thy rhythmic throat, I deep within, 
These syllables of her spell. 

This hymned wisdom of her pondering years ? 

For thou hast spoken song-wise in a tongue 
I knew not till I heard the buried air 
Burst from the boughs and bring me what thou 
sung. 

Here where the lake lies bare 
To reaching summits and the azure sky. 

Thy music is a language of the trees, 

The brown soil, and the never-trodden brake ; 
Translatress art thou of dumb mysteries 
That dream through wood and lake j 
And I, in thee, have uttered what I am ! 

TO A CATY-DID 

By Philip Freneau 

N a branch of willow hid 
Sings the evening Caty-did : 

From the lofty locust bough 
Feeding on a drop of dew, 

In her suit of green arrayed 
Hear her singing in the shade — 
Caty-did, Caty-did, Caty-did ! 

While upon a leaf you tread. 

Or repose your little head 
On your sheet of shadows laid, 

All the day you nothing said : 




325 


Half the night your cheery tongue 
Revelled out its little song, — 
Nothing else but Caty-did. 

From your lodging on the leaf 
Did you utter joy or grief ? 

Did you only mean to say, 

I have had my summer s day^ 

And am passings soon^ away 
To the grave of Caty-did ; 

Poor, unhappy Caty-did ! 

But you would have uttered more 
Had you known of Nature’s power ; 
From the world when you retreat, 
And a leafs your winding sheet. 
Long before your spirit fled. 

Who can tell but Nature said, — 
Live again, my Caty-did ! 

Live, and chatter Caty-did. 

Tell me, what did Caty do ? 

Did she mean to trouble you ? 

Why was Caty not forbid 
To trouble little Caty-did ? 

Wrong, indeed, at you to fling. 
Hurting no one while you sing, — 
Caty-did ! Caty-did ! Caty-did ! 

Why continue to complain ? 

Caty tells me she again 

Will not give you plague or pain ; 


326 


Caty says you may be hid, 

Caty will not go to bed 
While you sing us Caty-did, — 
Caty-did ! Caty-did ! Caty-did ! 

But, while singing, you forgot, 
To tell us what did Caty not : 

Caty did not think of cold. 

Flocks retiring to the fold, 

Winter with his wrinkles old; 
Winter, that yourself foretold 
When you gave us Caty-did. 

Stay serenely on your nest ; 

Caty now will do her best. 

All she can, to make you blest ; 

But you want no human aid, — 
Nature, when she formed you, said, 
Independent you are made. 

My dear little Caty-did : 

Soon yourself must disappear 
With the verdure of the year,” 

And to go, we know not where. 
With your song of Caty-did. 


ELUSIVE NATURE 

By Henry "Nimrod 

A t last, beloved Nature ! I have met 

Thee face to face upon thy breezy hills. 
And boldly, where thy inmost bowers are set, 
Gazed on thee naked in thy mountain rills. 


327 


When first I felt thy breath upon my brow, 
Tears of strange ecstasy gushed out like rain, 
And with a longing, passionate as vain, 

I strove to clasp thee. But, I know not how, 
Always before me didst thou seem to glide ; 
And often from one sunny mountain-side. 
Upon the next bright peak I saw thee kneel. 
And heard thy voice upon the billowy blast ; 
But, climbing, only reached that shrine to feel 
The shadow of a Presence which had passed. 


THE HERMIT THRUSH 

By Mrs. Nelly Hart IV oodworth 

W HO rings New England’s Angelus ? 

A litde bird so plainly dressed 
With robe of brown and spotted vest 
He rings New England’s Angelus. 


MIDSUMMER INVITATION 

By Myron B. Benton 

O PALLID student ! leave thy dim alcove 

And stretch one restful summer after- 
noon. 

Thoughtless amidst the thoughtless things of 
June, 

Beneath these boughs with light and murmur wove. 


328 


Drop book and pen, a thrall released rove; 

The Sisyphean task flung ofl-, impugn 
The withered Sphynx — with earth’s fresh heart 
attune. 

Thou, man, the origin of evil prove ! 

O leave that dark coil where the spider delves 
To trap the unwary reasoner in his lair. 

And weave oblivon’s veils round learned shelves ; 
Wist to the beat of Ariel’s happy wings. 

And cool thy brain in this balm laden air ; 

Here brooding peace shall still thy questionings. 


- THERE IS ONE SPOT FOR WHICH 
MY SOUL WILL YEARN ” 

By Myron B. Benton 

HERE is one spot for which my 
soul will yearn. 

May it but come where breeze 
and sunlight play. 

And leaves are glad, some path 
of swift return ; 

A waif — a presence borne on 
friendly ray — 

Even thus, if but beneath the same blue sky ! 

The grazing kine not then will see me cross 
The pasture slope ; the swallows will not shy. 

Nor brooding thrush ; blithe bees the flowers will 
toss : 




329 


Not the faint thistle down my breath may charm. 
Ah, me ! But I shall find the dear ways old, 

If I have leave, that sheltered valley farm ; 

Its climbing woods, its spring, the meadow’s gold ; 
The creek-path, dearest to my boyhood’s feet — 
Oh God ! is there another world so sweet ? 


JOY-MONTH 

By 'David Atwood IV as son 

H, hark to the brown thrush ! 
hear how he sings ! 

How he pours the dear pain 
of his gladness ! 

What a gush ! and from out 
what golden springs ! 

What a rage of how sweet 
madness ! 

And golden the buttercup blooms by the way, 

A song of the joyous ground ; 

While the melody rained from yonder spray 
Is a blossom in fields of sound. 

How glisten the eyes of the happy leaves ! 

How whispers each blade, I am blest ! ” 

Rosy Heaven his lips to flowered earth gives, 

With the costliest bliss of his breast. 

Pour, pour of the wine of thy heart, O Nature ! 

By cups of field and of sky. 

By the brimming soul of every creature ! — 
Joy-mad, dear Mother, am I. 



330 


Tongues, tongues for my joy, for my joy ! more 
tongues ! — 

Oh, thanks to the thrush on the tree. 

To the sky, and to all earth’s blooms and songs ! 
They utter the heart in me. 


NOVEMBER IN ENGLAND 



By Thomas Hood 

O sun — no moon ! 

No morn — no noon ! 

No dawn — no dusk — no prop- 
er time of day — 

No sky — no earthly view — 

No distance looking blue — 

No road — no street — no ‘^t’other 
side the way” — 

No end to any Row ” — 

No indications where the Crescents go — 
No top to any steeple — 

No recognitions of familiar people — 

No courtesies for showing ’em — 

No knowing ’em! 

No travelling at all — no locomotion. 

No inkling of the way — no notion — 

No go ” — by land or ocean — 

No mail — no post — 

No news from any foreign coast — 

No park — no ring — no afternoon gentility — 

No company — no nobility — 


331 


No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease. 
No comfortable feel in any member — 
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, 

No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds, 
November ! 


TO AN ALASKAN GLACIER 

By Charles Keeler 

UT of the cloud-world sweeps 
thy awful form. 

Vast frozen river, fostered by the 
storm 

Up on the drear peak’s snow- 
encumbered crest. 

Thy sides deep grinding in the 
mountain’s breast 
As down its slopes thou ploughest to the sea 
To leap into thy mother’s arms, and be 
There cradled into nothingness. How slow. 

How imperceptible, thy ceaseless flow. 

As one with an eternity unspent 
Wherein to round thy task of wonderment ! 

Thy strength resistless is as will of fate ; 

The granite ground to sand beneath thy weight. 
The mountains hollowed out with furrows deep. 
The sculptured peaks that totter from their steep. 
All bear the matchless impress of thy skill. 

Grim mountain hewer ! With a sudden thrill 



332 


Great bergs crash thunderously beneath the tide, 
And, slow emerging, o’er the waters ride 
Like boats of pearl slow floating to their doom. 
Which, fondly, the soft lapping waves consume. 

I walked erstwhile upon thy frozen waves. 

And heard the streams amid thy ice-locked caves ; 
I peered down thy crevasses blue and dim. 
Standing in awe upon the dizzy rim. 

Beyond me lay the inlet still and blue, 

Behind, the mountains loomed upon the view 
Like storm-wraiths gathered from the low-hung sky. 
A gust of wind swept past with heavy sigh. 

And lo ! I listened to the ice-stream’s song 
Of winter, when the nights grow dark and long. 
And bright stars flash above thy fields of snow. 
The cold- waste sparkling in the pallid glow. 

Or, when the storms wail round thy peaks and 
spires. 

Playing weird notes upon thy ice-wrought lyres 
Until the shuddering pinnacles, astrain. 

Tumble and crash amidst the seething main. 

Years, centuries and eons thou hast known. 
Waxing and waning in the wilds alone, 

Hoar mountain sculptor, shaper of the earth ! 

The crystals of the snow which gave thee birth. 
Renewing still thy life, are o’er thee spread, 

• And, as they fall, thou quiverest in thy bed. 
Stretching thy vastness down its narrow way 
And roaring like a god in fierce dismay ; 

Thus prisoned, eager in one mighty throe 
To leap into the sea and end thy woe ! 


333 


SUMMER DROUGHT 

/ 

And though at spring we ploughed and proffered 
seed, 

It lay ungermed, a pillage for the birds : 

And unto one low dam, in urgent need. 

We daily drove the suppliant, lowing herds. 

But now the fields to barren waste have run. 

The dam a pool of oozing greenery lies. 

Where knots of gnats hang reeling in the sun 
Till early dusk, when tilt the dragon-flies. 

All night the craw-fish deepens out her wells. 

As shows the clay that freshly curbs them 
round ; 

And many a random upheaved tunnel tells 

Where ran the mole across the fallow ground. 

But ah ! the stone-dumb dullness of the dawn. 
When e’en the cocks too listless are to crow. 
And lies the world as from all life withdrawn. 
Unheeding and outworn and swooning low ! 



By y. P. Irvme 

HEN winter came the land was 
lean and sere : 

There fell no snow, and oft 
from wild and field 
In famished tameness came the 
drooping deer. 

And licked the waste about 
the troughs congealed. 


334 


There is no dew on any greenness shed, 

The hard-baked earth is cracked across the 
walks ; 

The very burrs in stunted clumps are dead 

And mullein leaves drop withered from the 
stalks. 

Yet, ere the noon, as brass the heaven turns. 

The cruel sun smites with unerring aim. 

The sight and touch of all things blinds and burns. 
And bare, hot hills seem shimmering into flame! 

On either side the shoe-deep dusted lane 

The meagre wisps of fennel scorch to wire ; 

Slow lags a team that drags an empty wain. 

And, creaking dry, a wheel runs oflFits tire. 

No flock upon the naked pasture feeds. 

The sheep with prone heads huddle near the 
fence ; 

A gust runs crackling through the brittle weeds. 
And then the heat still waxes more intense. 

On outspread wings a hawk, far poised on high. 
Quick swooping screams, and then is heard no 
more : 

The strident shrilling of a locust nigh 

Breaks forth, and dies in silence as before. 

No transient cloud o’erskims with flakes of shade 
The landscape hazed in dizzy gleams of heat ; 

A dove’s wing glances like a parried blade. 

And western walls the beams in torrents beat. 


335 


So burning low, and lower still the sun, 

In fierce white fervor, sinks anon from sight. 
And so the dread, despairing day is done. 

And dumbly broods again the haggard night. 


INDIAN SUMMER 

By y. P. Irvine 

T last the toil encumbered days 
are over. 

And airs of noon are mellow 
as the morn ; 

The blooms are brown upon the 
seeding clover. 

And brown the silks that 
plume the ripening corn. 

All sounds are hushed of reaping and of mowing ; 

The winds are low ; the waters lie uncurled ; 
Nor thistle-down nor gossamer is flowing. 

So lull’d in languid indolence the world. 

And mute the farms along the purple valley. 

The full barns muffled to the beams with sheaves; 
You hear no more the noisy rout and rally 
Amongst the tenant-masons of the eaves. 

A single quail, upstarting from the stubble. 

Darts whirring past and quick alighting down 
Is lost, as breaks and disappears a bubble, 

Amid the covert of the leafy brown. 




336 


The upland glades are flecked afar in dapples 
By flocks of lambs a-gambol from the fold ; 

The orchards bend beneath the weight of apples, 
And groves are bright in crimson and in gold. 

But hark ! I hear the pheasant’s muffled drumming, 
The water murmur from a distant dell ; 

A drowsy bee in mazy tangles humming ; 

The far, faint tinkling tenor of a bell. 

And now from yonder beech trunk sheer and sterile, 
The rat-tat-tat of the wood-pecker’s bill ; 

The sharp staccato barking of a squirrel, 

A dropping nut, and all again is still. 


AN AUGUST AFTERNOON 

On the Farm 

By y. P. Irvine 

N stifling mows the men became 
oppressed. 

And hastened forth hard 
breathing and o’ercome \ 
The hatching hen stood panting 
in her nest. 

The sick earth swooned in 
languor and was dumb. 

The dust-dull’d crickets lay in heedless ease 
Of trampling hoofs along the beaten drives. 

And from the fields the home-returning bees. 

Limp wing’d and tired, lit short before their hivej.. 




337 


The drooping dog moped aimlessly around ; 

Lop’d down, got up, snapt at the gnats ; in pits 
Knee deep, the tethered horses stamped the ground. 
And switched at bot-flies dabbing yellow nits. 

With heads held prone the sheep in huddles stood 
Through fear of gads — the lambs, too, ceased 
to romp ; 

The cows were wise to seek the covert wood, 

* Or belly deep stand hidden in the swamp. 

So dragged the day, but when the dusk grew deep 
The stagnant heat increased ; we lit no light. 
But sat out-doors, too faint and sick for sleep ; 
Such was the stupor of that August night. 


IN MAY 


(1870) 

By Robert Kelly Weeks 

OW that the green hill-side has 
quite 

Forgot that it was ever white. 
With quivering grasses clothed 
upon ; 

And dandelions invite the sun ; 
And columbines have found s 
way 

To overcome the hard and gray 
Old rocks that also feel the spring ; 

And birds make love and swing and sing 



338 


On boughs which were so bare of late j 
And bees become importunate ; 

And butterflies are quite at ease 
Upon the well-contented breeze, 

Which only is enough to make 
A shadowy laughter on the lake ; 

And all the clouds, that here and there 
Are floating, melting in the air. 

Are such as beautify the blue ; — 

Now what is worthier. May, than you 
Of all my praise, of all my love. 
Except whom you remind me of? 



INDEX BY AUTHORS 

(The abbreviations Am. and Brit, are used respectively 
to indicate the American and British authors.) 

BBEY, Henry (Am.) : Trailing 
Arbutus^ 1925 Winter Days^ 
193* 

Akers, Elizabeth (Am.) : Snow^ 
248 ; The Miracle - W orkers^ 
246 ; The Pipe of Pan^ 244. 
Aldrich, Thomas Bailey (Am.) : 
A Touch of Nature^ 164; Sea Longings^ ^65; 
The Bluebird^ 166. 

Ames, Mary Clemmer (Am.) : Nantasket^ 202. 
Anonymous (Am.) : To the Cat-Bird^ 172. 

Arnold, Matthew (Brit.) : Dover Beach^ 18 1 ; Phi^ 
lomela^ 19 1 ; Poor Matthias^ 183 ; The Depart^ 
ure of the Cuckoo^ 190. 

Averill, Anna Boynton (Am.) : Birch Stream^ 293. 

B enton, Joel (Am.) *. December^ 225. 

Benton, Myron B. (Am.) : Midsummer In^ 
vitation^ 327 ; There is One Spot for 
Which my Soul will Tearnf 328. 

Blake, William (Brit.): The Tiger^ 288. 

Bolles^ Frank (Am.) : The Oven-Bird^ 3^7* 

339 




340 


Boyle, Sarah Roberts (Am.) : The Voice of the 
Grass ^ 321. 

Bradley, Mary Emily (Am.) : A Chrysalis^ 3 20. 
Browning, Robert (Brit.) : By the Fireside^ 54 ; 
Home-Thoughts from Abroad^ 53 ; Pippa Passes^ 
55 - 

Bryant, William Cullen (Am.) : An Invitation to 
the Country^ 119; fune^ > 'T'he Gladness of 
Nature^ I 20 ; The Path^ 1 12 ; The Planting of 
the ApplerTree^ 109 ; To a Waterfowl^ 117. 
Buchanan, Robert (Brit.) : Spring Song in the City^ 

45 - 

Burns, Robert (Brit.): Afton Water ^ 38; Again 
Rejoicing Nature Seesf 40 ; Bonnie Doon^ 44 ; 
On Seeing a Wounded Hare^ 39; To a Moun- 
tain Daisy ^ 42 ; To a Mouse^ 36. 

Burroughs, John (Am.) : Golden Crown Sparrow 
of Alaska^ 79 ; To the Lapland Long spur ^ 80. 
Byron, George Noel Gordon, Lord (Brit.) : Nighty 
24 ; Solitude^ 23. 


C ALDWELL, William W. (Am.) : Rohin^s 
Come^ 194- 

Campbell, Thomas (Brit.) ; The Beech 
Tree^s Petition^ 22 ; To the Rainbow^ 20 . 
Carman, Bliss (Brit.) : A More Ancient Mariner^ 
71 ; The foys of the Road^ 68. 

Clarke, Edna Proctor (Am.) : The Humming-Bird^ 
170. 

Cleaveland, C. L. (Am.) : November^ 169. 


341 


Cone, Helen Gray (Am.) : The Dandelions^ 304. 
Cooke, Rose Terry (Am.): The Snow-Filled Nest^ 

309- 

‘‘Cornwall, Barry” (^See Procter^ Bryan Waller') 
(Brit.). 

Cotton, Charles (Brit.): The Retirement^ i. 
Cowper William (Brit.) : The Cricket^ 283. 

Craik, Dinah Maria Mulock (Brit.) : Green Things 
Growings 205. 

D ana, Richard H. (Am.) : The Little 
Beach-Bird^ 278. 

Darmesteter, Mrs. (Brit.), Darwinism^ 32. 
De Kay, Charles (Am.): Peace^ 301. 
Domett, Alfred (Brit.) : J Glee for Winter^ 52. 


E merson, Ralph Waldo (Am.) : Song of 
Nature^ 64; The Humble-Bee^ (y 7 . Wal- 
deinsamkeit^ 60. 


I FAWCETT, Edgar (Am.) ; 
4 A White Camellia^ 214; 
213. 


A Toad^ 213; 
To an Oriole^ 


F., E. S. (Am.): Blood-Root^ 177. 

Flagg, Wilson (Am.) : The Lincoln Family^ 
290. 

Forsyth, Mary Isabella (Am.) : The English Spar-- 
row, 233. 

Freneau, Philip (Am.) : To a Katy-Did, 324. 


342 


G 


ALLAGHER, William D. (Am.): August ^ 
228 ; The Cardinal Bird^ 230. 

Garland, Hamlin (Am.) : Line Up^ Brave 
Boys^ 298 ; The Herald Crane^ 297 ; The 
Toil of the Trails 300 ; The Whistling Marmot^ 


299. 

Gilder, Richard Watson (Am.) : A Song of Early 
Autumn^ 223 ; Dawn^ 220; Great Nature is 
an Army Gayf 224 j The Voice of the Pine^ 


221. 


H ARTE, Francis Bret (Am.) : Grizzly y 
197 ; To a Sea-Birdy 196. 

Herrick, Robert (Brit.): To Blossoms^ ii. 
Hey wood, Thomas (Brit.) . Pack Clouds 
Awayy 10 . 

Hill, Thomas (Am.): The Boholinky 153. 

Hogg, James (Brit.) : The Larky 280. 

Holmes, Oliver Wendell (Am.) : Midsummer y 106 ; 

My Aviary y 102; To an Insect y 107. 

Hood, Thomas (Brit.) : November in Englandy 


330- 

Howells, William Dean (Am.) : The Song the Oriole 

74 - . ■ 

Howitt, Mary (Brit.) : Cornfieldsy 206. 



RVINE, J. P. (Am.) : An August Afternoony 
336; Indian Summery 335 ; Summer Droughty 

333 - 


343 


J EWETT, Sarah Orne (Am.) : A Caged Bird^ 

175 - 

Johnson, Robert Underwood (Am.) : The 
Wistful Days^ 310 5 To the Housatonic at 
Stockhridge^ 3 H* 

Jonson, Ben (Brit.) : Hymn to Cynthia^ 7. 


K eats, John (Brit.) : Ode to Autumn^ 235 ; 
Ode to a Nightingale^ ^ 37 * 

Keeler, Charles (Am.): To an Alaskan 
Glacier^ 33^* 

Kennedy, William Sloane (Am.) : Shadows^ 243. 
Kimball, Harriet McEwen (Am.) : The Crickets^ 
303 - 


King, Harriet Eleanor Hamilton (Brit.) : The 
Crocus^ 34. 

Kingsley, Charles (Brit.) : Song of the River ^ 167. 


L AIGHTON, Albert (Am.): Under the 
Leaves^ 20 1. 

Lamb, Charles (Brit.) : The Housekeeper^ 

II. 

Lang, Andrew (Brit.) : Scythe Song^ 33. 

Larcom, Lucy (Am.) : A Strip of Blue^ 316. 
Lathrop, George Parsons (Am.) : The Song-Spar^ 
row^ 295. 

Logan, John (Brit.) : To the Cuckoo^ 289. 
Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth (Am.) : Daybreak^ 
95 ; Rain in Summer^ 96; The Bridge^ 100. 


344 


Longfellow, Samuel (Am.) : Jpril^ 301 ; November^ 
302. 

Lowell, James Russell (Am.) : The Biglow Papers^ 
No, 93 5 To the Dandelion^ 91. 


M AcCARTHY, Denis Florence (Brit.) : 
The Irish Wolf-Hound^ 56. 
Macdonald, Hugh (Brit.) : The Birds of 
Scotland^ 2ll, 

MacKellar, Thomas (Am.) : To a Troublesome Fly^ 

234- 

Markham, Edwin (Am.) : Little Brothers of the 
Ground^ 3^3 > Mist.^ 314* 

Marvell, Andrew (Brit.) : Thoughts in a Garden^ 
240. 

Mifflin, Lloyd (Am.): Aprils 76; Autumn^ 78; 
Summer^ 77. 

Milton, John (Brit.): Part of II Penseroso^ 281; 
Part of U Allegro^ 282. 

Montgomery, James (Brit.) : The Daisy ^ 287. 
Morris, Harrison Smith (Am.) : The Lonely Bird^ 

3 ^ 3 - 

Murray, George (Brit.) : To a Humming-Bird in a 
Garden^ 47. 



ORRIS, J. (Brit.) : 

305- 


Hymn to Darknes'^^ 



345 


O BERHOLTZER, Mrs. Sarah L. (Am.)- 
Come for Arbutus^ 303* 

P ERCIVAL, James Gates (Am.) : Ti Seneca 
Lake^ 285. 

Percy, Florence ” (^See Allen^ Mrs, Eli%a- 
heth Akers') (Am.). 

Perry, Nora (Am.) : In June,^ 226. 

Piatt, Sarah (Am.) A Word with a Skylark (^A 
Caprice of Homesickness),^ 157 * 

Pope, Alexander (Brit.) : Ode on Solitude,^ 6. 
Procter, Bryan Waller (Brit.) : The Owl,, 31 j The 
Sea,, 29 ; The Stormy Petrel,, 28. 


R ead, Thomas Buchanan (Am.) : The 
Closing Scene,, 275. 

Roberts, Charles G. D. (Brit.) : Autoch- 
thon,, 57; The Flight of the Geese,, 60 ; 
The Frosted Pane,, 57 ; The Haw kbit,, 59. 
Roberts, Sarah (^See Boyle,, Sarah Roberts) (Am.). 
Robinson, A. Mary F. {See Darmesteter,, Mrs,) 
(Brit.). 


S hakespeare, wiiiiam (Brit.): Dover 

Cliff's,, 27; Moonlight,, 26; Sonnet,, 25; 
Flowers,, 27. 

Shelley, Percy Bysshe (Brit.) : The Cloud,, 
12; The Invitation,, 18; The Recollection,, 15. 


346 


Sherman, Frank Dempster (Am.) : Footprints in the 
SnoWy 1 7 1. 

Sprague, Charles (Am.) : The Winged Worshippers^ 
292. 

Stedman, Edmund Clarence (Am.) : Seeking the 
May-Flower^ ^99 5 What the Winds Brings 
201. 

Stoddard, Charles Warren (Am.): Albatross^ 318. 

T ABB, John Banister (Am.) : The Hum- 
ming-Bird^ 215; The Water-Lily^ 216. 
Tennyson, Alfred (Brit.): A Farewell^ 
253 ; Breaks Breaks Breaks 254 ; Early 
Springs 258 ; April Days^ 257 ; Autumn^ 255 : 
Springs 260 ; The Brook^ 249 ; The Shelly 261 ; 
The Blackbird^ 252; The Eagle^ 254; The 
Throstle^ 256; The Dragon-Fly^ 251. 
Tennyson, Frederick (Brit.) : The Skylark^ 49. 
Thaxter, Celia (Am.) : August^ 208 ; The Sand- 
piper^ 209 ; Wild Geese ^ 208. 

Thomas, Edith M. (Am.): The Grasshopper^ 156; 
The Vesper- Sparrow^ 155* 

Thompson, Maurice (Am.) : In the Haunts of Bass 
and Bream^ 158. 

Thoreau, Henry David (Am.) : Mist^ 280 ; Smoke ^ 
279. 

Timrod, Henry (Am.) : Elusive Nature^ 326. 
Townley, Mary (Am.) : The Rose in October^ 168. 
Trowbridge, John Townsend (Am.) : The Cup^ 
82 ; The Pewee^ 87 5 Trouting^ 85, 


347 


V 


AN DYKE, Henry (Am.): An Angler^ s 
Wish^ 218; The Song-Sparrow^ 216. 
Very, Jones (Am.) : Nature^ 198. 


W ARTON, Thomas (Brit.) : Retirement 
{Inscription in a Hermitage)^ 8. 
Wasson, David Atwood (Am.) : Joy-^ 
Months 329. 

Weeks, Robert Kelly (Am.) : In May^ 337. 
Wesley, Charles (Brit.) : For One Retired into the 
Country^ 4. 

West, A. (Am.): The White-Throated Sparrow^ 
174 - 

White, Joseph Blanco (Brit.) : Night and Deaths 


286. 

Whitman, Walt (Am.) : Bare-Bosow! d Nighty 267 ; 
‘‘7 am an Acme of Things Accomplish edf 262 ; 

Oxen that Rattle the Yoke and Chain f 266 ; 
The Microcosm^ 264 ; You Sea^ 268 ; “ There Was 
a Child Went Forth f 272; This Compost^ 269. 
Whittier, John Greenleaf (Am.) : Among the Hills^ 
14 1 ; Snow-Bound^ I44> The Barefoot Boy^ 
150. 


Wilde, Richard Henry (Am.) : To the Mocking- 
5 /W, 319. 

Wilson, Robert Burns (Am.) : The Passing of 
March ^ 1775 ^^When in the Night we Wake and 
Hear the Rainf 178. 

Woodworth, Mrs. Nelly Hart (Am.) : The Hermit 
Thrush^ 327. 


348 


Wordsworth, William (Brit.) : A Night Piece^ 131 ; 
Daffodils^ 138; Lines Written in Early Springs 
134; Heart Leaps Up When 1 Behold^^ 

139 ; Nightingale^ 126 ; The World is Too 
Much With Us^’’ 139 ; There Was a Boy^ ^35; 

Three Tears She Grew in Sun and Shower^’* 
124; Hntern Abbey ^ 128 ; To a Butterfly^ 140; 
To a Skylark^ 127; To my Sister^ 132; To the 
Cuckoo^ 129; To the Small Celandine,^'' 1 2 1 ; 
^^Up ! Up ! My Friend and ^uit Your Books 
136. 


* Common Pllewort. 



BIRD POEMS 


PAGE 



CAGED Bird. By Sarah 

Orne Jewett 175 

Albatross. By Charles War- 
ren Stoddard 318 

A Word with a Skylark. By 

Sarah Piatt 157 

Golden Crown Sparrow of 
Alaska. By John Burroughs 79 

II Penseroso, Part of. By John Milton 281 

L’Allegro, Part of. By John Milton 282 

My Aviary. By Oliver Wendell Holmes 102 

Ode to a Nightingale. By John Keats 237 

Pack Clouds Away. By Thomas Hey wood 10 

Philomela. By Matthew Arnold 191 

Poor Matthias. By Matthew Arnold 183 

Robin’s Come! By William W, Caldwell 194 

The Birds of Scotland. By Hugh Macdonald 21 1 
The Blackbird. By Alfred Tennyson 252 

The Bluebird. By Thomas Bailey Aldrich 166 

The Bobolink. By Thomas Hill 153 

The Cardinal Bird. By William D. Gallagher 230 
The Departure of the Cuckoo. (From Thyr- 

sis.) By Matthew Arnold 190 

The English Sparrow. By Mary Isabella Forsyth 233 
The Flight of the Geese. By Charles G. D. 

Roberts 60 


340 





35 ° 


PAGE 

The Herald Crane. By Hamlin Garland 297 
The Hermit Thrush. By Mrs, Nelly Hart 

Woodworth 327 

The Humming-Bird. By Ednah Proctor Clarke 170 
The Humming-Bird. By John Banister Tabb 215 
The Lark. By "James Hogg 280 

The Little Beach-Bird. By Richard H, Dana 278 
The Lonely Bird. By Harrison Smith Morris 323 
The Nightingale. By William Wordsworth 126 

The O’Lincoln Family. By Wilson Flagg 290 

The Oven-Bird. By Frank Bolles 307 

The Owl. By Bryan Waller Procter Barry 

Cornwair^) 31 

The Pewee. By John Townsend Trowbridge 87 

The Sandpiper. By Celia Thaxter 209 

The Skylark. By Frederick Tennyson 49 

The Snow-Filled Nest. By Rose Terry Cooke 309 
The Song-Sparrow. By George Parsons Lathrop 295 
The Song-Sparrow. By Henry van Dyke 216 

The Song the Oriole Sings. By William Dean 

Howells 74 

The Stormy Petrel. By Bryan Waller Proc^ 

ter Barry Cornwall 28 

The Throstle. By Alfred Tennyson 256 

The Vesper-Sparrow. By Edith M, Thomas 155 
The White-Throated Sparrow. By A. West 174 
The Winged Worshippers. By Charles Sprague 292 
To a Humming Bird in a Garden. By George 

Murray 47 

To an Oriole. By Edgar Fawcett 213 

To a Sea-Bird. By Francis Bret Harte 196 


351 


, PAGE 

To a Sky-Lark. By William Wordsworth 127 

To a Waterfowl. By William Cullen Bryant 117 
To the Cat-Bird. Anonymous 172 

To the Cuckoo. By ^ohn Logan 289 

To the Cuckoo. By William Wordsworth 129 

To the Lapland Longspur. By ^ohn Burroughs 80 
To the Mocking-Bird. By Richard Henry 

Wilde 319 

Wild Geese. By Celia Thaxter 208 


FLOWER POEMS 


WHITE Camellia. By Ed- 
gar Fawcett 

Blood-Root. By E, S. F, 
Come for Arbutus. By ALrs. 

Sara L, Oberholt%er 
Daffodils, William Words- 
worth 

Winter’s Tale.) By William 

Seeking the Mayflower. By Edmund Clarence 
Stedman 

The Beech -Tree’s Petition. By Thomas 
Campbell 

The Crocus. By Harriet Eleanor Hamilton 
King 

The Daisy. By James Montgomery 
The Dandelions. By Helen Gray Cone 
The Hawkbit. By Charles G, D, Roberts 



Flowers. (From 
Shakespeare 


214 

177 

303 

138 

27 

199 

22 


34 

287 

304 

59 


352 


• PAGE 

The Planting of the Apple-Tree. By Will- 
iam Cullen Bryant 109 

The Voice of the Grass. By Sarah Roberts 

Boyle 321 

The Water-Lily. By John Banister Tabb 216 

To a Mountain Daisy. By Robert Burns 42 

To Blossoms. By Robert Herrick II 

To the Dandelion. By 'James Russell Lowell 91 

To the Small Celandine. By William Words- 
worth 1 2 1 

Trailing Arbutus. By Henry Abbey 192 


POEMS OF NATURE 


SPRING 

GAIN Rejoicing Nature 
Sees.” By Robert Burns 
An Angler’s Wish. By Henry 
van Dyke 

An Invitation to the Coun- 
try. By William Cullen 
Bryant 

April. By Samuel Longfellow 
April. By Lloyd Mifflin 
April Days. By Alfred Tennyson 
A Touch of Nature. By Thomas Bailey Aldrich 164 
Early Spring. By Alfred Tennyson 258 

In June. By Nora Perry 226 

In May. By Robert Kelley Weeks 337 

Joy- Month. By David Atwood Wasson 329 



40 

218 


I19 

301 

76 

257 


353 


PAGE 


II5 


June. By William Cullen Bryant 
Lines Written in Early Spring. By William 
W ordsworth 

Spring. By Alfred Tennyson 
Spring Song in the City. By Robert Buchanan 
The Biglow Papers, No. 6. By fames Russell 
Lowell 

The Passing of March. By Robert Burns Wilson 177 
Lhe Wistful Days. By Robert Underwood 

f oh ns on 310 

To my Sister. By William Wordsworth 132 

Under the Leaves. By Alfred Laighton 201 


134 

260 

45 


93 


SUMMER 


An August Afternoon. By J, P. Irvine 336 

August. By William D. Gallagher 228 

August. By Celia Thaxter 20 8 

Green Things Growing. By Dinah Maria 

Mu lock Craik 20 5 

Home Thoughts from Abroad. By Robert 

Browning 53 

Indian Summer. By f. P, Irvine 335 

Midsummer. By Oliver Wendell Holmes 106 

Midsummer Invitation. By Myron B. Benton 327 
Rain in Summer. By Henry Wadsworth Long- 
fellow 96 

Summer. By Lloyd Mifflin 77 

Summer Drought. By f. P. Irvine 333 

Trouting. By fohn Townsend Trowbridge 85 


JUrUMN 


PAGE 


A Song of Early Autumn. By Richard Watson 

Gilder 223 

Autumn. By Lloyd Mifflin 78 

Autumn. By Alfred Tennyson 255 

By the Fireside. By Robert Browning 54 

Cornfields. By Mary Howitt 206 

November. By C, L. Cleaveland 169 

November. By Samuel Longfellow 302 

November in England. By Thomas Hood 330 

Ode to Autumn. By John Keats 235 

The Closing Scene. By Thomas Buchanan 

Read 275 

The Gladness of Nature. By William Cullen 

Bryant I2C 

The Path. By William Cullen Bryant 112 

The Rose in October. By Mary Townley 168 

mNT'ER 

A Glee for Winter. By Alfred Domett 52 

December. By foel Benton 225 

Footprints in the Snow. By Frank Dempster 

Sherman 1 7 1 

Peace. By Charles De Kay 3 ^^ 

Snow. By Elizabeth Akers 248 

Snow-Bound. By fohn Greenleaf Whittier 1 44 

The Frosted Pane. By Charles G. D, Roberts 57 
The Invitation. By Percy Bysshe Shelley 18 

Winter Days. By Henry Abbey 193 


355 


GENERAL NATURE 

PAGE 

CHRYSALIS. By Mary 
Emily Bradley 3 20 

A Farewell. By Alfred Ten- 
nyson 253 

Afton Water. By Robert 

Burns 38 

Among the Hills. By John 
Greenleaf Whittier 14 1 

A More Ancient Mariner. By Bliss Carman 71 

A Night Piece. By William Wordsworth 13*1 

A Strip of Blue. By Lucy Larcom 316 

A Toad. By Edgar Fawcett 213 

Autochthon. By Charles G. D. Roberts 57 

Bare-Bosom’d Night. By Walt Whitman 267 

Birch Stream. By Anna Boynton Averill 293 

Bonnie Doon. By Robert Burns 44 

Break, Break, Break. By Alfred Tennyson 254 

Darwinism. By Mrs, Darmsteter ifl, Mary 

F, Robinson'^ 32 

Dawn. By Richard Watson Gilder 220 

Daybreak. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 95 

Dover Beach. By Matthew Arnold 18 1 

Dover Cliffs. By William Shakespeare 27 

Elusive Nature. By Henry Timrod 326 

For One Retired into the Country. By Charles 

W ^.sley 4 

Great Nature is an Army Gay.” By Richard 
Watson Gilder 224 



356 


PAGE 


Grizzly. By Francis Bret Harte 197 

Hymn to Darkness. By J, Norris 305 

Hymn to Cynthia. By Ben "Jonson 7 

I am an Acme of Things Accomplished.” 

By Walt Whitman 'ib'l 

In the Haunts of Bass and Bream. By Maurice 

Thompson 158 

Line Up, Brave Boys. By Hamlin Garland 298 

Little Brothers of the Ground. By Edwin 

Markham ' 313 

Mist. By Henry David Thoreau 280 

Moonlight. By William Shakespeare 26 

My Heart Leaps up when I Behold. By 

William Wordsworth 139 

Nantasket. By Mary Clemmer Ames 202 

Nature. By jones Very 198 

Night. (From Childe Harold.) By Lord Byron 24 
Night and Death. By Joseph Blanco White 286 
Ode on Solitude. By Alexander Pope 6 

On Seeing a Wounded Hare. By Robert Burns 39 
‘‘Oxen that Rattle the Yoke and Chain.” By 

Walt Whitman 266 

Pippa Passes. (From Pippa Passes.) By Robert 

Browning 5 5 

Retirement. (Inscription in a Hermitage.) By 

Thomas W arton 8 

Scythe Song. By Andrew Lang 33 

Sea Longings. By Thomas Bailey Aldrich 165 

Shadows. By William Sloane Kennedy 243 

Smoke. By Henry David Thoreau 279 

Solitude. (From Childe Harold.) V^y Lord Byron 23 


357 


PAGE 

Song of Nature. By Ralph Waldo Emerson 64 
Song of the River. By Charles Kingsley 167 

Sonnet. By William Shakespeare 25 

The Bare-foot Boy. By yohn Greenleaf Whit- 
tier 150 

The Bridge. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 100 

The Brook : By Alfred Tennyson 249 

The Cloud. By Percy Bysshe Shelley 12 

The Cricket. By William Cowper 283 

The Crickets. By Harriet McEwen Kimball 303 

The Cup. By fohn Townsend Trowbridge 82 

The Dragon-Fly. (From The Two Voices.) By 
Alfred Tennyson 251 

The Eagle. Fragment. By Alfred Tennyson 254 

The Flying Mist. By Edwin Markham 314 

The Grasshopper. By Edith M. Thomas 156 

The Housekeeper. By Charles Lamb 1 1 

The Humble-Bee. By Ralph Waldo Emerson 62 

The Irish Wolf-Hound. (From The Foray of 
Con O’Donnell.) By Denis Florence Mac- 
Car thy 56 

The Joys of the Road. By Bliss Carman 68 

The Microcosm. By Walt Whitman 264 

The Miracle- Workers. By EU%abeth Akers 246 

The Pipe of Pan. By Elizabeth Akers 244 

The Recollection. By Percy Bysshe Shelley 15 

The Retirement. By Charles Cotton i 

There is a Spot for which my Soul Will 
Yearn.” By Myron B. Benton 3^^ 

There Was a Boy. By William Wordsworth 135 


358 


PAGE 

There Was a Child Went Forth. By Walt 

Whitman 272 

The Sea. By Bryan W aller Procter Barry 

Cornwall 29 

The Shell. (From Maud.) By Alfred Penny son 261 
The Throstle. By Alfred Tennyson 256 

The Tiger. By William Blake 288 

The Toil of the Trail. By Hamlin Garland 300 
The Dragon-Fly. By Alfred Tennyson 251 

The Voice of the Pine. By Richard Watson 

Gilder 22 1 

The Whistling Marmot. By Hamlin Garland 2 g() 
The World is too Much with Us.” By 
William Wordsworth 139 

This Compost. By Walt Whitman 269 

Thoughts in a Garden. By Andrew Marvell 240 
Three Years She Grew in Sun and Shower. 

By William Wordsworth 124 

Tintern Abbey, 'William Wordsworth 128 

To a Butterfly. By William Wordsworth 140 

To a Caty-Did. By Philip Freneau 324 

To a Mouse. By Robert Burns , 36 

To an Alaskan Glacier. By Charles Keeler 331 
To an Insect. By Oliver Wendell Holmes 107 

To a Troublesome Fly. By Thomas MacKellar 234 
To Seneca Lake. By fames Gates Percival 285 
To the Housatonic at Stockbridge. By Robert 

Underwood fohnson 3 1 1 

To the Rainbow. By Thomas Campbell 20 

Up ! Up ! My Friend, and Quit your 
Books.” By William Wordsworth 136 


359 


PAGE 

Waldeinsamkeit. By Ralph Waldo Emerson 6o 

What the Winds Bring. By Edmund Clarence 

Stedman 20 1 

When in the Night We Wake and Hear the 

Rain. By Robert Burns Wilson 178 

You Sea. By Walt Whitman 268 


A LINE 0' TYPE OR TWO ^ 

Hew to the Ltne» let the qujpe fall where they may, 

B0HE3IIA]Sr WAXWIINGS. 

As blithe and buoyant thro’ the glacial air 

As if the swales were filled with scented bloom, 
The w'axwings, wandering, seek their meagre fare 
Of withered drupes. From out the sparkling- 
spume 

Of drifts, wind tortured, comes a sudden whir, 

A chorus of contented lispings; then, 

No sign. Where forty living creatures were I 

Silence and deathly cold now’' brood again. 

Now I may grow from middle age to old 
Ere waxwings come again to gladden me; 

Or I may visit lands of arctic cold 

Beyond the distant shores of either Isea 
And meet them not. Yet once they gave me hail; 

Once, for a moment, kept my spirit pace. 

Bold as their own, with theirs along the gale 
And knew their rapture in the wind-swept space. 

HIRAM W. HEEZE. 




STORIES OF RARE CHARM BY 


GENE STRATTON-PORTER 


May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap’s list 


LADDIE. 

Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer. 

This is a bright, cheery tale with the 
scenes laid in Indiana. The story is told 
by Little Sister, the youngest member of 
a large family, but it is concerned not so 
much with childish doings as with the love 
affairs of older members of the family. 
Chief among them is that of Laddie, the 
older brother whom Little Sister adores, 
and the Princess, an English girl who has 
come to live in the neighborhood and about 
whose family there hangs a mystery. 
There is a wedding midway in the book 
and a double wedding at the close. 

THE HAR\T:STER. Illustrated by W. L. Jacobs. 

“The Harvester,*^ David Langston, is a man of the woods and 
fields, who draws his living from the prodigal hand of Mother 
Nature herself. If the book had nothing in it but the splendid figure 
of this man it would be notable. But when the Girl comes to his 
“Medicine Woods,’* and the Harvester’s whole being realizes that 
this is the highest point of life which has come to him — there begins 
a romance of the rarest idyllic quality. 

FRECKLES , Decorations by E. Stetson Crawford. 

Freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way in 
which he takes hold of life; the nature friendships he forms in the 
great Limberlost Swamp; the manner in which everyone who meets 
him succumbs to the charm of his engaging personality; and his 
love-story with “The Angel” are full of real sentiment. 

A GIRL OF THE LIMBERLOST. 

Illustrated by Wladyslaw T. Brenda. 

The story of a girl of the Michigan woods; a buoyant, lovable 
type of the self-reliant American. Her philosophy is one of love and 
kindness towards all things; her hope is never dimmed. A.nd by the 
sheer beauty of her soul, and the purity of her vision, she wins from 
barren and unpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage. 

AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW. 

Illustrations in colors by Oliver Kemp. 

The scene of this charming love story is laid in Central Indiana. 
The story is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing 
love. The novel is brimful of the most beautiful word painting of 
nature, and its pathos and tender sentiment will endear it to all. 



Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York 


MYRTLE REED’S NOVELS 

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list 


LAVENDER AND OLD LACE. 

A charming story of a quaint corner of 
New England where bygone romance finds a 
modem parallel. The story centers round 
the coming of love to the young people on 
the staff of a newspaper— and it is one of the 
prettiest, sweetest and quaintest of old fash- 
ioned love stories, ^ ^ gi rare book, ex- 

quisite in spirit and conception, full of 
delicate fancy, of tenderness, of delightful 
humor and spontaniety. 

A SPINNER IN THE SUN . 

Miss Myrtle Reed may always be depended upon to write a story 
in which poetry, charm, tenderness and humor are combined into a 
clever and entertaining book. Her characters are delightful and she 
;always displays a quaint humor of expression and a quiet feeling of 
pathos which give a touch of active realism to all her writings. In 
‘ A Spinner in the Sun” she tells an old-fashioned love story, of a 
veiled lady who lives in solitude and whose features her neighbors 
have never seen. There is a mystery at the heart of the book that 
thr-aT** over it the glamour of romance. 

THE MASTER’S VIOLIN, 

A love story in a musical atmosphere. A pictui^sque, old Ger- 
man virtuoso is the reverent possessor of a genuine “Cremona.” He 
consents to take for his pupil a handsome youth who proves to have 
an aptitude for technique, but not the soul of an artist. The youth 
has led the happy, careless life of a modem, well-to-do young xYmei - 
ican and he cannot, with his meagre past, express the love, the passion 
and the tragedies of life and all its happy phases as can the master 
who has lived life in all its fulness. But a girl comes into his life — a 
beautiful bit of human driftwood that his aunt had taken into hei 
heart and home, and through his passionate love for her, he learns 
the lessons that life has to give — and his soul awakes. 

Founded on a fact that all artists realize. 


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KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN’S 
STORIES OF PURE DELIGHT 


Full of originality and humor, kindliness and cheer 


THE O LD PEABO DY PEW, Large Octavo. Decorative 
text pages, printed in two colors. Illustrations by Alice 
Barber Stephens. 

One of the prettiest romances that has ever come from this 
author’s pen is made to bloom on Christmas Eve in the sweet 
freshness of an old New England meeting house. 

PENELOPE’S PROGRESS. Attractive cover design in 

colors. 

Scotland is the background for the merry doings of three very 
clever and original American girls. Their adventures in adjusting 
themselves to the Scot and his land are full of humor. 

PENELOPE’S IRISH EXPERIENCES. Uniform in style 

with *Tenelope’s Progress.” 

The trio of clever girls who rambled over Scotland cross the bor- 
der to the Emerald Isle, and again they sharpen their wits against 
new conditions, and revel in the land of laughter and wit. 

REBECCA OF SUNNYBROOK FARM. 

One of the most beautiful studies of childhood — Rebecca’s artis- 
tic, unusual and quaintly charming qualities stand cut midst a circle 
of austere New Englanders. The stage version is making a phe- 
nomenal dramatic record. 

N EW CHRONICLES OF REBECCA. With illustrations 
by F. C. Yohn. 

Some more quaintly amusing chronicles that carry Rebecca 
through various stages to her eighteenth birthday. 

ROSE O’ THE RIVER. With illustrations by George 

Wright. 

The simple story of Rose, a country girl and Stephen a sturdy 
young farmer, The girl’s fancy for a city man interrupts their love 
and merges the story into an emotional strain where the reader fol- 
lows the events with rapt attention. 


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CHARMING BOOKS FOR GIRLS 


May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list 

WHEN PATTY WENT TO COLLEGE, By Jean Webster. 
Illustrated by C. D. Williams. 

One of the best stories of life in a girl’s college that has ever been 
written. It is bright, whimsical and entertaining, lifelike, laughable 
and thoroughly human. 

JUST PATTY, By Jean Webster. 

Illustrated by C. M. Relyea. 

Patty is full of the joy of living, fun-loving, given to ingenious 
mischief for its own sake, with a disregard for pretty convention which 
is an unfailing source of joy to her fellows. 

THE POOR LITTLE RICH GIRL, By Eleanor Gates. 

With four full page illustrations. 

This story relates the experience of one of those unfortunate chil- 
dren whose early days are passed in the companionship of a governess, 
seldom seeing either parent, and famishing for natural love and tender- 
ness. A charming play as dramatized by the author. 

REBECCA OF SUNNYBROOK FARM, By Kate Douglas 

Wiggin. 

One of the most beautiful studies of childhood — Rebecca’s artistic, 
unusual and faintly charming qualities stand out midst a circle of 
austere New Englanders. The stage version is making a phenominaJ 
dramatic record. 

NEW CHRONICLES OF REBECCA, By Kate Douglas Wiggin. 
Illustrated by F. C. Yohn. 

Additional episodes in the gprlhood of this delightful heroine that 
carry Rebecca through various stages to her eighteenth birthday. 

REBECCA MARY , By Annie Hamilton Donnell. 

Illustrated by Elizabeth Shipp en Green. 

This author possesses the rare gift of portraying all the grotesque 
little joys and sorrows and scruples of this very small girl with a pa- 
thos that is peculiarly genuine and appealing. 

EMMY LOU: Her Book and Heart, By George Madden Martin. 

Illustrated by Charles Louis Hinton. 

Emmy Lou is irresistibly lovable, because she is so absolutely real. 
She is just a bewitchingly innocent, hugable little maid. The book h 
wonderfully human. 


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TITLES SELECTED FROM 

GROSSET & DUNLAP’S LIST 

RE-ISSUES OF THE GREAT UTERARY SUCCESSES OF THE TIME 


May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list 


BEN HUR. A Tale of the Christ. By General Lew Wallace 

This famous Religious-Historical Romance with its mighty story, 
brilliant pageantry, thrilling action and deep religious reverence, 
hardly requires an outline. The whole world has placed “Ben- Huri’ 
on a height of pre-eminence which no other novel of its time has 
reached. The clashing of rivalry and the deepest human passions, 
the perfect reproduction of brilliant Roman life, and the tense, fierce 
atmosphere of the arena have kept their deep fascination. 

THE PRINCE OE INDIA. By General Lew Wallace 

A glowing romance of the Byr.antine Empire, showing, with vivid 
imagination, the possible forces behind the internal decay of the Em- 
pire that hastened the fall of Constantinople. 

The foreground figure is the person known to all as the Wan- 
dering Jew, at this time appearing as the Prince of India, with vast 
stores of wealth, and is supposed to have instigated many wars and 
fomented the Crusades. 

Mohammed’s love for the Princess Irene is beautifully wrought 
into the story, and the book as a whole is a marvelous work both 
historically and romantically. 

FHE FAIR GOD . By General Lew Wallace. A Tale of the 
Conquest of Mexico. With Eight Illustrations by Eric Pape. 

All the annals of conquest have nothing more brilliantly daring 
and dramatic than the drama played in Mexico by Cortes. As a 
dazzling picture of Mexico and the Montezumas it leaves nothing to 
be desired. 

The artist has caught with rare enthusiasm the spirit of the 
Spanish conquerors of Mexico, its beauty and glory and romance. 

TARRY THOU TILL I COME or, Salathiel, the Wandering 

Jew. By George Croly. With twenty illustrations by T. de Thulstrup 

A historical novel, dealing with the momentous events that oc- 
curred, chiefly in Palestine, from the time of the Crucifixion to the 
destruction of Jerusalem. 

The book, as a story, is replete with Oriental charm and richness, 
and the character drawing is marvelous. No other novel ever written 
has portrayed with such vividness the events that convulsed Rome 
and destroyed Jerusalem in the early days of Christanity. 


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NOVELS OF SOUTHERN LIFE 

By THOMAS DIXON, JR. 


May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list 


THE LEOPARD'S SPOTS ; A Story of the White Man’s 

Burden, 1865 -igoo. With illustrations by C. D. Williams. 

A tale of the South about the dramatic events of Destruct’ion. 
Reconstruction and Upbuilding. The work is able and eloquent and 
the verifiable events of history are followed closely in the develop- 
ment of a story full of struggle. 

THE CLANSMAN. With illustrations by Arthur I. Keller. 

While not connected with it in any way, this is a companion vol 
ume to the author’s “epoch-making” story It 

is a novel with a great deal to it, and which very properly is going to 
interest many thousands of readers. ^ ^ ^ It is, first of all, a forceful, 
dramatic, absorbing love story, with a sequence of events so surprising 
that one is prepared for the fact that much of it is fouuded on actual 
happenings; but Mr. Dixon has, as before, a deeper purpose — he has 
aimed to show that the original formers of the Ku Klux Klan were 
modern knights errant taking the only means at hand to right 
intolerable wrongs. 

THE TRAITOR . A Story of the Fall of the Invisible Empire. 
Illustrations by C. D. Williams. 

The third and last book in this remarkable trilogy of novels relat 
ing to Southern Reconstruction. It is a thrilling story of love, ad- 
venture, treason, and the United States Secret Service dealing witl|. 
the decline and fall of the Ku Klux Klan. 

COM RADES. Illustrations by C. D. Williams. 

A novel dealing with the establishment of a Socialistic Colony 
upon a deserted island off the coast of California. The way of dis- 
iiiusiunrnent is the course over which Mr. Dixon conducts the reader 

TH E ONE WOMAN. A Story of Modern Utopia. 

A love story and character study of three strong men and two fas- 
cinating women. In swift, unified, and dramatic action, we see So- 
cialism a deadly force, in the hour of the eclipse of Faith, destroying 
the home life and weakening the fiber of Anglo Saxon manhood. 


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THE NOVELS OF 

STEWART EDWARD WHITE 


THE RU LES OF THE GAME. Illustrated by Lajaren A. Hiller 

The romance of the son of “The Riverman/^ The young college 
hero goes into the lumber camp, is antagonized by “graft” and comes 
into the romance of his life. 

ARIZONA NIGHTS. Ulus, and cover inlay by N. C. Wyeth. 

A series of spirited tales emphasizing some phases of the iif 
of the ranch, plains and desert. A masterpiece. 

THE BLAZED TRAIL. With illustiations by Thomas Fogarty, 
A wholesome story with gleams of humor, telling of a young 
man who blazed his way to fortune through the heart of the Mich- 
igan pines. 

I HE CLAIM JUMPERS . A Romance. 

The tenderfoot manager of a mine in a lonesome gulch of the 
Black Hills has a hard time of it, but “wins out” in more ways than 
one. 

CONJUROR^S HOUSE. Illustrated Theatrical Edition. 

Dramatized under the title of “The Call of the North.^^ 
“Conjurors House is a Hudson Bay trading post where the 
head factor is the absolute lord. A young fellow risked his life and 
won a bride on this forbidden land. 

THE MAGIC FOREST. A Modern Fairy Tale. Illustrated. 

'The sympathetic way in which the children of the wild and 
their life is treated could only belong to one who is in love with the 
forest and open air. Based on fact. 

T HE RI VERM AN. Ulus, by N. C. Wyeth and C. Underwood. 

The story of a man’s fight against a river and of a struggle 
between honesty and grit on the one side, and dishonesty and 
shrewdness on the other. 

T ME SILENT PLACES. Illustrations by Philip R. Goodwin. 

The wonders of the northern forests, the heights of feminine 
devotion, and masculine power, the intelligence of the Caucasian 
and the instinct of the Indian, are all finely drawn in this story. 
THE WESTERNERS . 

A story of the Black Hills that is justly placed among the 
rest American novels. It portrays the life of the new West as no 
''ther book has done in recent years. 

^" HE MYSTERY. In collaboration with Samuel Hopkins Adams 
With illustrations by Will Crawford. 

The disappearance of three successive crews from the stout 
lihip “Laughing Lass” in mid- Pacific, is a mystery weird and inscrut- 
able. In the solution, there is a story of the most exciting voyage 
that man ever undertook. 


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TITLES SELECTED FROM 

GROSSET & DUNLAP’S LIST 


May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list 


THE SILENT CALL. By Edwin Milton Royle. Illustrated 
with scenes from the play. 

The hero of this story is the Squaw Man’s son. He has 
been taken to Eng^land, but spurns conventional life for the sake 
of the untamed West and a girl’s pretty face. 

JOHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER. By George W. Cable. 

A story of the pretty women and spirited men of the South. 
As fragrant in sentiment as a sprig of magnolia, and as full of 
mystery and racial troubles as any romance of “after the war” 
days. 

MR. JUSTICE RAFFLES. By E. W. Homung. 

This engaging rascal is found helping a young cricket player 
out of the toils of a money shark. Novel in plot, thrilling and 
amusing. 

FORTY MINUTES LATE . By F. Hopkinson Smith. Illustrated 

by S. M. Chase. ' 

Delightfully human stories of every day happenings; of a 
lecturer’s laughable experience because he’s late, a young woman’s 
excursion into the stock market, etc. 

OLD LADY NUMBER 31 . By Louise Forsslund. 

A heart-warming story of American rural life, telling of the 
adventures of an old couple in an old folk’s home, their sunny, 
philosophical acceptance of misfortune and ultimate prosperity. 

THE HUSBAND’S STORY. By David Graham Phillips. 

A story that has given all Europe as well as all America much 
food for thought. A young couple begin life in humble circum- 
stances and rise in worldly matters until the husband is enormously 
rich— the wife in the most aristocratic European society— but at the 
price of their happiness. 

THE TRAIL OF NINETY-EIGHT . By Robert W. Service. 

Illustrated by Maynard Dixon. 

One of the best stories of “Vagabondia” ever written, and 
one of the most accurate and picturesque descriptions of the stain- 
pede of gold seekers to the ukon. The love story embedded in 
the narrative is strikingly original. 


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n 





